THE 

MAYFAIR 
RENTAL 
LIBRARY 


7859  MELROSE 
HOLLYWOOD,  CALIF. 


THE  MAYFAIR  RENTAL  LIBRARY 
BOOK  No. 


LJ_il  1  J.  I  UJ      J_J 

4.01. 


RULE 

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I 

Section  6231/o,  Penal  Code,  State  of  California — Wilful  detention  of 
library  books.  Whoever  wilfully  detains  any  book  *  *  or  other 
property  belonging  to  any  public  or  incorporated  library,  reading 
room,  *  *  for  thirty  days  after  notice  in  writing  to  return  the  same, 
given  after  the  expiration  of  the  time  which  by  the  rules  of  such 
institution  such  article  *  *  may  be  kept,  is  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor 
and  shall  be  punished  accordingly. 


By  "THE  DUCHESS" 


Author  of  "Airy  Fairy  Lilian,"  "  Dick's  Sweetheart, 
"  Rossmoyne,"  etc.,  etc. 


"Doris," 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK 


MOLLY  BAWN. 


CHAPTEE  I. 
"  On  hospitable  thoughts  intent." 

"  POSITIVELY  he  is  coming!  "  says  Mr.  Massereene.  with 
an  air  of  the  most  profound  astonishment. 

"  Who? "  asks  Molly,  curiously,  pausing  with  her  toast 
in  mid-air  (they  are  at  breakfast),  and  with  her  lovely  eyes 
twice  taeir  usual  goodly  size.  Her  lips,  too,  are  apart ;  but 
whether  in  anticipation  of  the  news  or  of  the  toast,  it  would 
be  difficult  to  decide.  "  Is  any  one  coining  here?  " 

"  Even  here.  This  letter  " — regarding,  with  a  stricken 
conscience,  the  elegant  scrawl  in  his  hand — "  is  from  Ted- 
castle  George  Luttreii  (he  is  evidently  proud  of  his  name), 
declaring  himself  not  only  ready  but  fatally  willing  to  ac- 
cept my  invitation  to  spend  a  montn  with  me." 

"A  month!"  says  Molly,  amazed.  "And  you  never 
said  a  word  about  it,  John." 

"  A  month !  "  says  Letitia,  dismayed.  "  What  on  earth, 
John,  is  any  one  to  do  with  any  one  for  a  month  down 
here?" 

"I  wish  I  knew,"  replies  Mr.  Massereene,  getting  more 
and  more  stricken  as  he  notices  his  wife's  dejection,  and 
gazing  at  Molly  as  though  for  inspiration.  "  What  evil 
genius  possessed  me  that  I  didn't  say  a  fortnight?  But, 
to  tell  you  the  honest  truth,  Letty,  it  never  occurred  to  me 
that  he  might  come." 

•'  Then  why  did  you  ask  him?  "  says  Letitia,  as  sharply 
?is  is  possible  for  her.  "  When  writing,  you  might  bare 
anticipated  so  much:  people  generally  do." 


2  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

"  Do  they  ?  "  says  Mr.  Maasereene,  with  an  irrepressible 
glance  at  Molly.  "  Then  you  must  only  put  me  down  as 
an  exception  to  the  general  rule.  I  thought  it  only  civil 
to  ask  him,  but  I  certainly  never  believed  he  would  be  rask 
enough  to  go  in  for  voluntary  exile.  I  should  have  re- 
membered how  unthinking  he  always  was." 

"  But  who  is  he?  "  asks  Molly,  impatiently,  full  of  keen 
and  pleasurable  excitement.  "  I  die  of  vulgar  cariosity. 
What  is  he  like?  Is  he  young,  handsome?  Oh;  John,  do 
say  he  is  young  and  good-looking. " 

"  He  was  at  school  with  me." 

"Oh!  "groans  Molly. 

"  Does  that  groan  proceed  from  a  conviction  that  I  am 
in  the  last  stage  of  decay?"  demands  Mr.  Massereene. 
"  Anything  so  rude  as  you,  Molly,  has  not  as  yet  been 
rivaled.  However,  I  am  at  a  disadvantage :  so  I  forgive, 
and  will  proceed.  Though  at  school  with  me,  he  is  at 
least  nine  years  my  junior,  and  can't  be  more  than  twenty- 
seven." 

"  Ah !  "  says  Molly.  To  an  Irish  girl  alone  is  given  the 
power  to  express  these  two  exclamations  with  proper 
effect. 

"  He  is  a  hussar,  of  a  good  family,  sufficiently  good 
looks,  and,  I  think,  no  fortune,"  says  Mr.  Massereene,  as 
though  reading  from  a  doubtful  guide-book. 

"  How  delightful !  "  says  Molly. 

"How  terrific!  "  sighs  Letitia.  "  Fancy  a  hussar  find- 
ing amusement  in  lambs,  and  cows,  and  fat  pigs,  and 
green  fields!  " 

"  '  Green  fields  and  pastures  new,'  "  quotes  Mr.  Masse- 
reene.  "  He  will  have  them  in  abundance.  He  ought  to 
be  happy,  as  they  say  there  is  a  charm  in  variety." 

"  Perhaps  he  will  find  some  amusement  in  me/'  sug- 
gests Molly,  modestly.  "Can  it  be  possible  that  he  is 
really  coming?  Oh,  the  glory  of  having  a  young  man  to 
talk  to,  and  that  young  man  a  soldier!  Letitia,"  to  her 
sister-in-law,  "  I  warn  you  it  will  be  no  use  for  you  to  look 
shocked,  because  I  have  finally  made  up  my  mind  to  flirt 
every  day,  and  all  day  long,  with  Tedcastle  George  Lut- 
trell." 

"Shocked!"  says  Letitia,  gravely.  "I  would  be  a 
great  deal  more  shocked  if  you  had  said  you  wouldn't ;  for 
what  I  should  do  with  him.  if  you  refused  to  take  him  in 
hand,  is  a  thing  on  which  I  shudder  to  speculate.  John  w 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  0 

forever  doing  questionable  things,  and  repenting  when  it 
is  too  late.  Unless  he  means  to  build  a  new  wing — " 
with  a  mild  attempt  at  sarcasm, — "  I  don't  know  where 
Mr.  Luttrell  is  to  sleep/' 

"  I  fear  I  would  not  have  time/'  says  Massereene, 
meekly;  "  the  walls  would  scarcely  be  dry,  as  he  is  coming 
• — the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"  Not  until  then?"  says  Letitia,  ominously  calm. 
"  Why  did  you  not  make  it  to-day?  That  would  have  ut- 
terly precluded  the  possibility  of  my  getting  things  into 
any  sort  of  order." 

"  Letitia,  if  you  continue  to  address  me  in  your  pres- 
ent heartless  style  for  one  minute  longer,  I  shall  burst 
into  tears,"  says  Mr.  Massereene.  And  then  they  all 
laugh. 

"He  shall  have  my  room,"  says  Molly,  presently,  see' 
ing  that  perplexity  still  adorns  Letitia's  brows,  "  and  I  can 
have  Lo vat's." 

"  Oh,  Molly,  I  will  not  have  you  turned  out  of  your 
room  for  any  one,"  says  Letitia;  but  she  says  it  faintly, 
and  is  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  relief  at  her  heart  as  she 
speaks. 

"  But  indeed  he  shall.  It  is  such  a  pretty  room  that  he 
cannot  fail  to  be  impressed.  Any  one  coming  from  a  hot 
city,  and  proving  insensible  to  the  charms  of  the  roses  that 
are  now  creeping  into  my  window,  would  be  unfit  to  live. 
Even  a  hussar  must  have  a  soft  spot  somewhere.  I  foresee 
those  roses  will  be  the  means  of  reducing  him  to  a  lamb- 
like meekness." 

"You  are  too  good,  Molly.  It  seems  a  shame,"  says 
Letitia,  patting  her  sister-in-law's  hand,  and  still  hesitat- 
ing, through  a  sense  of  duty;  "  does  it  not,  John?  " 

"It  is  so  difficult  to  know  what  a  woman  really  means 
by  the  word,  '  shame,'  "  replies  John,  absently,  being  deep 
in  the  morning's  paper.  *'  You  said  it  was  a  shame  yes- 
terday when  the  cat  drank  all  the  cream ;  and  Molly  said 
it  was  a  shame  when  Wyndham  ran  away  with  Crofton'w 
wife." 

"Don't  take  any  notice  of  him,  Letty,"  says  Molly,, 
with  a  scornful  shrug  of  her  pretty  shoulders,  turning  her 
back  on  her  brother,  and  resuming  the  all-important  sub' 
ject  of  the  expected  visitor. 

"  Another  railway  accident,  and  twenty  men  killed,'1 
Bays  Mr.  Masseruoue,  iu  a  few  minutes,  looking  up  from 


4  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

his  TiniM,  and  adopting  the  lugubrious  tone  one  always 
assumes  on  such  occasions,  whether  one  cares  or  not. 

"  Wasn't  it  fortunate  we  put  up  those  curtains  clean  last 
week?"  murmurs  Letitia,  in  a  slow,  self-congratulatory 
voice. 

"  More  than  fortunate,"  says  Molly. 

"  Twenty  men  killed,  Letty!  "  repeats  Mr.  Massereene, 
solemnly. 

"  I  don't  believe  there  is  a  spare  bath  in  the  house,"  ex- 
claims Letitia,  again  sinking  into  the  lowest  depth  of  de- 
spair. 

"  You  forget  the  old  one  in  the  nursery.  It  will  do  for 
the  children  very  well,  and  he  can  have  the  new  one,"  says 
Molly. 

"Twenty  men  killed,  Molly!"  reiterates  Mr.  Masse- 
reene, a  faint  gleam  of  surprised  disgust  creeping  into  his 
eyes. 

"So  it  will,  dear.  Molly,  you  are  an  immense  comfort. 
What  did  you  say,  John?  Twenty  men  killed?  Dread- 
full  I  Avonder,  Molly,  if  I  might  suggest  to  him  that  I 
would  not  like  him  to  smoke  in  bed?  I  hear  a  great  many 
young  men  have  that  habit;  indeed,  a  brother  of  mine, 
years  ago,  at  home,  nearly  set  the  house  on  fire  one  night 
with  a  cigar. " 

"Let  me  do  all  the  lecturing,"  says  Molly,  gayly; 
"there  is  nothing  I  should  like  better." 

"Talk  of  ministering  angels,  indeed!"  mutters  Mr. 
Massereene,  rising,  and  making  for  the  door,  paper  and 
all.  "  I  don't  believe  they  would  care  if  England  was 
swamped,  so  long  as  they  had  clean  curtains  for  LuttrelPs 
bed." 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  A  lovely  lady,  garmented  in  light 
From  her  own  beauty." — SHELLEY. 

THE  day  that  is  to  bring  them  Luttrell  has  dawned, 
deepened,  burst  into  perfect  beauty,  and  now  holds  out  itR 
arms  to  the  restful  evening.  A  glorious  sunny  evening  as 
yet,  full  of  its  lingering  youth,  with  scarce  a  hint  of  the 
decay  The  Uttie  vuiiow  sunbeams,  richer  perhaps 


MOLL  Y  BA  Wtf.  9 

in  tint  than  they  were  two  hours  agone,  still  play  their 
Barnes  of  hide-and-seek  and  bo-peep  among  the  roses  that 
climb  and  spread  themselves  in  all  their  creamy,  rosy, 
snowy  loveliness  over  the  long,  low  house  where  live  the 
Massereenes,  and  breathe  forth  scented  kisses  to  the  woo- 
ing wind. 

A  straggling  house  is  Brooklyn,  larger,  at  the  first 
glance,  than  it  in  reality  is,  and  distinctly  comfortable,  yet 
with  its  comfort,  a  thing  very  far  apart  from  luxury,  and 
with  none  of  the  sleepiness  of  an  over-rich  prosperity  about 
U.  In  spite  of  the  late  June  sun,  there  is  a  general  air 
of  life,  a  tremulous  merriment,  everywhere :  the  voices  of 
the  children,  a  certain  laugh  that  rings  like  far-off  music, 
the  cooing  of  the  pigeons  beneath  the  eaves,  the  cluck- 
eluck  of  the  silly  fowls  in  the  farm-yard, — all  mingle  to 
defy  the  creeping  sense  of  laziness  that  the  day  gener- 
ates. 

"  It  is  late,"  says  Mr.  Massereene  to  himself,  examining 
his  watch  for  the  fifteenth  time  as  he  saunters  in  a  pur- 
poseless fashion  up  and  down  before  the  hall  door.  There 
is  a  suppressed  sense  of  expectancy  both  in  his  manner  and 
in  the  surroundings.  The  gravel  has  been  newly  raked, 
and  gleams  white  and  untrodden.  The  borders  of  the  lawn 
that  join  on  to  it  have  been  freshly  clipped.  A  post  in  the 
railings,  that  for  three  weeks  previously  has  been  tottering 
to  its  fall,  has  been  securely  propped,  and  now  stands  firm 
and  uncompromising  as  its  fellows. 

"It  is  almost  seven,"  says  Letitia,  showing  her  fresh, 
handsome  face  at  the  drawing-room  window.  "  Do  you 
think  he  will  be  here  for  dinner,  John?  " 

"  I  am  incapable  of  thought,"  says  John.  "  I  find  that 
when  a  man  who  is  in  the  habit  of  dining  at  six  is  left 
without  his  dfinner  until  seven  he  grows  morose.  It  is  a 
humiliating  discovery.  Surely  the  stomach  should  be  sub- 
servient to  the  mind;  but  it  isn't.  Letitia,  like  a  good 
girl,  do  say  you  have  ordered  up  the  soup." 

"  But,  my  dear  John,  had  we  not  better  wait  a  little 
longer?  " 

"  My  dear  Letitia,  most  certainly  not,  unless  you  wish 
to  raise  a  storm  impossible  to  quell.  At  present  I  feel  my- 
self in  a  mood  that  a  very  little  more  waiting  will  render 
ferocious.  Besides," — seeing  his  wife  slightly  uneasy, — 
"  as  he  did  not  turn  up  about  six,  he  cannot  by  any  possi- 
bility be  here  until  half -past  eight." 


<5  MOLL  Y  BA  Wtf. 

"And  I  took  such   trouble   with   that   dinner!" 
Letitia,  with  a  sigh. 

"  I  arn  more  glad  to  hear  it  than  I  can  tell  you,"  says 
her  husband,  briskly.  "  Take  my  word  for  it,  Letty,  your 
trouble  won't  go  for  nothing." 

""  Gourmand!  "  says  Letitia,  with  the  smile  she  reserves 
alone  for  him. 

Eight, — half -past  eight — nine. 

"  I  don't  believe  he  is  coming  at  all,"  says  Molly,  pet- 
tishly, coming  out  from  the  curtains  of  the  window,  and 
advancing  straight  into  the  middle  of  the  room. 

Under  the  chandelier,  that  has  been  so  effectively 
touched  up  for  this  recreant  knight,  she  stands  bathed  in 
the  soft  light  of  the  many  candles  that  beam  down  with 
mild  kindliness  upon  her.  It  seems  as  though  they  love  to 
rest  upon  her, — to  add  yet  one  more  charm,  if  it  may  be, 
to  the  sweet,  graceful  figure,  the  half-angry,  wholly  charm- 
ing attitude,  the  tender,  lovable,  fresh  young  face. 

"Her  eyes,  large,  dark,  and  blue, — true  Irish  eyes,  that 
bespeak  her  father's  race, — shine  with  a  steady  clearness. 
They  do  not  sparkle,  they  are  hardly  brilliant ;  they  look 
forth  at  one  with  an  expression  so  soft,  so  earnest,  yet 
withal  so  merry,  as  would  make  one  stake  their  all  on  the 
Kure  fact  that  the  heart  within  her  must  be  golden. 

Her  nut-brown  hair,  drawn  back  from  her  low  brow  into 
a  loose  coil  behind,  is  enriched  here  and  there  with  little 
Bunny  tresses,  while  across  her  forehead  a  few  wavy  locks — 
veritable  love-locks,  in  Molly's  case — wander  idly,  not  as 
of  a  set  purpose,  but  rather  as  though  they  have  there 
drifted  of  their  own  gay  will. 

Upon  her  cheeks  no  roses  lie, — unless  they  be  the  very 
creamiest  roses  that  ever  eye  beheld.  She  is  absolutely 
without  color  until  such  occasions  rise  as  when  grief  or 
gladness  touch  her  and  dye  her  lovely  skin  with  their  red 
glow. 

But  it  is  her  mouth — at  once  her  betrayer  and  her  chief 
charm — that  one  loves.  In  among  its  many  curves  lies  all 
her  wickedness, — the  beautiful  mouth,  so  full  of  mockery, 
laughter,  fun,  a  certain  decision,  and  tenderness  unspeak- 
able. 

She  smiles,  and  all  her  face  is  as  one  perfect  sunbeam. 
Surely  never  has  she  looked  so  lovely.  The  smile  dies,  her 
lips  elose,  a  pensive  sweetness  creeps  around  them,  and  one 


7 

terms  one's  self  a  fatuous  fool  to  have  deemed  hei  at  her  best 
a  moment  since ;  and  so  on  through  all  the  many  changes 
that  only  serve  to  show  how  countless  is  her  store  of  hidden 
charms. 

She  is  slender,  but  not  lean,  round,  yet  certainly  not 
full,  and  of  a  middle  height.  For  herself,  she  is  impul- 
sive ;  a  little  too  quick  at  times,  fond  of  life  and  laughter, 
as  all  youth  should  be,  while  perhaps  (that  I  should  live  to 
say  it !)  down  deep  within  her,  somewhere,  there  hides,  but 
half  suppressed  and  ever  ready  to  assert  itself,  a  wayward, 
turbulent  vein  that  must  be  termed  coquetry. 

Now,  at  this  instant  the  little  petulant  frown,  born  of 
"  hope  deferred/'  that  puckers  up  her  forehead  has  fallen 
into  her  eyes,  notwithstanding  the  jealous  guard  of  the 
long  curling  lashes,  and,  looking  out  defiantly  from  thence, 
gives  her  all  the  appearance  of  a  beloved  but  angry  child 
fretting  at  the  delay  of  some  coveted  toy. 

"  I  don't  believe  he  is  coming  at  all,"  she  says,  again, 
with  increased  emphasis,  having  received  no  answer  to  her 
first  assertion,  Letitia  being  absorbed  in  a  devout  prayer 
that  her  words  may  come  true,  while  John  is  disgracefully 
drowsy.  "  Oh,  fancy  the  time  I  have  wasted  over  my  ap- 
pearance, and  all  for  nothing!  I  won't  be  able  to  get  up 
the  enthusiasm  a  second  time :  I  feel  that.  How  I  hate 
young  men, — young  men  in  the  army  especially!  They 
are  so  selfish  and  so  good-for-nothing,  with  no  thought  for 
any  one  on  earth  but  Number  One.  Give  me  a  respecta- 
ble, middle-aged  squire,  with  no  aspirations  beyond  South- 
downs  and  Early  York." 

"Poor  Molly  Bawn!"  says  John,  rousing  himself  to 
meet  the  exigencies  of  the  moment.  "  'I  deeply  sympa- 
thize.' And  just  when  you  are  looking  so  nice,  too:  isn't 
she,  Letty?  I  vow  and  protest,  that  young  man  deserves 
nothing  less  than  extinction." 

"I  wish  I  had  the  extinguishing  of  him,"  says  Molly, 
viciously.  Then,  laughing  a  little,  and  clasping  her  hands 
loosely  behind  her  back,  she  walks  to  a  mirror,  the  better 
to  admire  the  long  white  trailing  robe,  the  faultless  face, 
the  red  rose  dying  on  her  breast.  "  And  just  when  I  had 
taken  such  pains  with  my  hair !  "  she  says,  making  a  faint 
grimace  at  her  own  vanity.  "  John,  as  there  is  no  one  else 
to  admire  me,  do  say  (whether  you  think  it  or  not)  I  aru» 
the  prettiest  person  you  ever  saw." 

"I  wouldn't  ftven  hesitate  over  such  a  simple  lie  aa 


8  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

that,"  says  John;  "  only — Letty  is  in  the  room:  consider 
her  feelings.'* 

"  A  quarter  to  nine.  I  really  think  he  can't  be  coming 
now,"  breaks  in  Letitia,  hopefully. 

-'  Coming  or  not  coming,  I  shan't  remain  in  for  him  an 
instant  longer  this  delicious  night,"  says  Molly,  walking 
toward  the  open  window,  under  which  runs  a  balcony,  and 
gazing  out  into  the  still,  calm  moonlight.  "  He  is  proba- 
bly not  aware  of  my  existence;  so  that  even  if  he  does 
come  he  will  not  take  my  absence  in  bad  part ;  and  if  he 
does,  so  much  the  better.  Even  in  such  a  poor  revenge 
there  is  a  sweetness." 

"  Molly,"  apprehensively,  "  the  dew  is  falling." 

"  I  hope  so,"  answers  Molly,  with  a  smile,  stepping  out 
into  the  cool,  refreshing  dark. 

Down  the  wooden  steps,  along  the  gravel  path,  into  the 
land  of  dreaming  flowers  she  goes.  Pale  moonbeams  light 
her  way  as,  with  her  gown  uplifted,  she  wanders  from  bed 
to  bed,  and  with  a  dainty  greediness  drinks  in  the  honeyed 
breathings  round  her.  Here  now  she  stoops  to  lift  with 

fentle  touch  a  drooping  head,  lest  in  its  slumber  some  de- 
ling earth  come  near  it ;  and  here  she  stands  to  mark  a 
spider's  net,  brilliant  with  dews  from  heaven.     A  crafty 
thing  to  have  so  fair  a  home ! — And  here  she  sighs. 

"Well,  if  he  doesn't  come,  what  matters  it?  A  stranger 
cannot  claim  regret.  And  yet  what  fun  it  would  have 
been!  what  fun!  (Poor  lily,  what  evil  chance  came  by 
you  to  break  your  stern  and  lay  your  white  head  there?) 
Perhaps — who  knows? — he  might  be  the  stupidest  mortal 
that  ever  dared  to  live,  and  then — yet  not  so  stupid  as  the 
walls,  and  trees,  and  shrubs,  while  he  can  own  a  tongue  to 
answer  back.  Ah !  wretched  slug,  would  you  devour  my 
tender  opening  leaves?  Ugh!  I  cannot  touch  the  slimy 
thing.  Where  has  my  trowel  gone?  I  wish  my  ears  had 
never  heard  his  name, — Luttrell ;  a  pretty  name,  too ;  but 
we  all  know  how  little  is  in  that.  I  feel  absurdly  disap- 
pointed; and  why?  Because  it  is  decreed  that  a  man  I 
never  have  known  I  never  shall  know.  I  doubt  my  brain 
is  softening.  But  why  has  my  tent  been  pitched  in  such  a 
lonely  spot?  And  why  did  he  say  he'd  come?  And  why 
did  John  tell  me  he  was  good  to  look  at,  and,  oh!  that 
best  of  all  things — yovng?  " 

A  sound, — a  step, — the  vague  certainty  of  a  presence 
saw.  And  Molly,  turning,  imus  uunseii  bat  a  few  yawls 


Af&LL  Y 

distant  from  the  expected  guest.     The  fatal  hay*  b*ea 
kind! 

A  tall  young  man,  slight  and  clean-limbed,  with  a  weLU 
ghaped  head  so  closely  shaven  as  to  suggest  a  Newgate  bar- 
ber; a  long  fair  moustache,  a  long  nose,  a  rather  large 
mouth,  luminous  azure  eyes,  and  a  complexion  the  sun  has 
vainly  tried  to  brown,  reducing  it  merely  to  a  deeper  flesh- 
tint.  On  the  whole,  it  is  a  very  desirable  face  that  Mr. 
Luttrell  owns;  and  so  Molly  decides  in  her  first  swift 
glance  of  pleased  surprise.  Yes,  the  fates  have  been  more 
than  kind. 

As  for  Luttrell  himself,  he  is  standing  quite  still,  in  the 
middle  of  the  garden-path,  staring  at  this  living  Flora. 
Inside  not  a  word  has  been  said  about  her,  no  mention  of 
her  name  had  fallen  ever  so  lightly  into  the  conversation. 
He  had  made  his  excuses,  had  received  a  hearty  welcome ; 
both  he  and  Massereene  had  declared  themselves  convinced 
that  not  a  day  had  gone  over  the  head  of  either  since  last 
they  parted.  He  had  bidden  Mrs.  Massereene  good-night, 
and  had  come  out  here  to  smoke  a  cigar  in  quietude,  all 
without  suspicion  that  the  house  might  yet  contain  an- 
other lovelier  inmate.  Is  this  her  favorite  hour  for  ram- 
bling? Is  she  a  spirit?  Or  a  lunatic?  Yes,  that  must 
be  it. 

Meanwhile  through  the  moonlight — in  it — comes  Molly, 
very  slowly,  a  perfect  creature,  in  trailing,  snowy  robes. 
Luttrell,  forgetting  the  inevitable  cigar, — a  great  conces- 
sion,— stands  mutely  regarding  her  as,  with  warm  parted 
lips  and  a  smile,  half  amused,  half  wondering,  she  gazes 
back  at  him. 

Even  a  plain  woman  may  gain  beauty  from  a  moon- 
beam ;  what,  then,  must  a  lovely  woman  seem  when  clothed 
in  its  pure  rays?  " 

"  You  are  welcome, — very  welcome,"  says  Molly,  at 
length,  in  her  low,  soft  voice. 

"  Thank  you/'  returns  he,  mechanically,  still  lost  in 
conjecture. 

"  I  am  not  a  fairy,  nor  a  spirit,  nor  yet  a  vision,"  mur- 
murs Molly,  now  openly  amused.  "  Have  no  fear.  See," 
holding  out  to  him  a  slim  cool  hand ;  "  touch  me,  and  be 
oonvinced,  I  am  only  Molly  Massereene." 

He  takes  the  hand  and  holds  it  closely,  still  entranced. 
Already — even  though  three  minutes  have  scarcely  marked 
tkoir  acquaintance — he  is  dimly  conscious  that  there 


10  MOLLY  SAWX. 

possibly  be  worse  things  in  this  world  than  a  perpetual 
wear-to  "only  Molly  Massereene." 

"  So  you  did  come/'  she  goes  on,  withdrawing  her  fin- 
gers slowly  but  positively,  and  with  a  faint  uplifting  of  her 
straight  brows,  "after  all.  I  was  so  afraid  you  wouldn't, 
you  were  so  long.  John — we  all  thought  you  had  thrown 
us  over." 

To  have  Beauty  declare  herself  overjoyed  at  the  mere  fact 
of  your  presence  is,  under  any  circumstances,  intoxicating. 
To  have  such  an  avowal  made  beneath  the  romantic  light 
of  a  summer  moon  is  maddening. 

"  You  cared?"  says  Luttrell,  in  hopeful  doubt. 

"Cared!"  with  alow  gay  laugh.     "I  should  think  I 

did  care.     I  quite  longed  for  you  to  come.     If  you  only 

,  knew  as  well  as  I  do  the  terrible,  never-ending  dullness  of 

this  place,  you  would  understand  how  one  could  long  for 

the  coming  of  any  one." 

Try  as  he  will,  he  cannot  convince  himself  that  the  ter 
mination  of  this  sentence  is  as  satisfactory  as  its  commence- 
ment. 

"When  the  evening  wore  on,"  with  a  little  depressed 
shake  of  her  head,  "  and  still  you  made  no  sign,  and  I 
began  to  feel  sure  it  was  all  too  good  to  be  true,  and  that 
you  were  about  to  disappoint  me  and  plead  some  hateful 
excuse  by  the  morning  post,  I  almost  hated  you,  and  was 
never  in  such  a  rage  in  my  life.  But,"  again  holding  out 
her  hand  to  him,  with  a  charming  smile  "  I  forgive  you 
now." 

"Then  forgive  me  one  thing  more, — my  ignorance," 
says  Luttrell,  retaining  the  fingers  this  time  with  much  in- 
creased firmness.  "  And  tell  me  who  you  are." 

"  Don't  you  know,  really?  You  never  heard  of  me  from 

John  or What  a  fall  to  my  pride,  and  when  in  my 

secret  heart  I  had  almost  flattered  myself  that 

"What?"  eagerly. 

"  Oh,  nothing — only By  the  bye,  now  you  have  con- 
fessed yourself  ignorant  of  my  existence,  what  did  bring 
you  down  to  this  uninteresting  village?"  All  this  with 
the  most  perfect  naivete, 

"  A  deeire,"  says  Luttrell,  smiling  in  spite  of  himself, 
"to  see  again  your — what  shall  I  say?" — hesitating — 
"father?" 

"Nonsense,"  says  Molly,  quickly,  with  a  little  frown. 
"  How  could  you  think  John  my  father?  When  he  looks 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  11 

BO  youag,  too.  I  hope  you  are  not  stupid :  we  shall  never 
get  on  if  you  are.  How  could  he  be  my  father?  " 

"  How  could  he  be  your  brother?  " 

"  Step-brother,  then,"  says  Molly,  unwillingly.  "  I 
will  acknowledge  it  for  this  once  only.  But  never  again, 
mind,  as  he  is  dearer  to  me  than  half  a  dozen  real  brothers. 
You  like  him  very  much,  don't  you?"  examining  him 
anxiously.  "  You  must,  to  take  the  trouble  to  come  all 
the  way  down  here  to  see  him." 

"I  do,  indeed,  more  than  I  caii  say,"  replies  the  young 
man,  with  wise  heartiness  that  is  yet  unfeigned.  "  He  has 
stood  to  me  too  often  in  the  old  school-days  to  allow  of  my 
ever  forgetting  him.  I  would  go  farther  than  Morley  to 
meet  him,  after  a  lengthened  absence  such  as  mine  has 
been." 

"  India?  "  suggests  Molly,  blandly. 

"  Yes."  Here  they  both  pause,  and  Molly's  eyes  fall  on 
her  imprisoned  hand.  She  is  so  evidently  bent  on  being 
again  ungenerous  that  Luttrell  forces  himself  to  break 
silence,  with  the  mean  object  of  distracting  her  thoughts. 

"Is  it  at  this  hour  you  usually  '  take  your  walks 
abroad?  '  "  he  asks,  smoothly. 

"Oh,  no,"  laughing;  "you  must  not  think  that.  To- 
night there  was  an  excuse  for  me.  And  if  there  is  blame 
in  the  matter,  you  must  take  it.  But  for  your  slothfulnees, 
your  tardiness,  your  unpardonable  laziness,"  spitefully, 
"  my  temper  would  not  have  driven  me  forth." 

"  But,"  reproachfully,  "  you  do  not  ask  the  cause  of  my 
delay.  How  would  you  like  to  be  first  inveigled  into  tak- 
ing a  rickety  vehicle  in  the  last  stage  of  dissipation  and 
then  deposited  by  that  vehicle,  without  an  instant's  warn- 
ing, upon  your  mother  earth?  For  my  part,  I  didn't  like 
it  at  all." 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  says  Molly,  sweetly.  "Did  all  that 
really  happen  to  you,  and  just  while  I  was  abusing  you 
with  all  my  might  and  main?  I  think  I  shall  have  to  be 
very  good  to  you  to  make  up  for  it." 

"I  think  so  too,"  says  Luttrell,  gravely.  "My  igno- 
minious breakdown  was  nothing  in  comparison  with  a 
harsh  word  thrown  at  me  by  you.  I  feel  a  deep  sense  of 
injury  upon  me." 

"  It  all  comes  of  our  being  in  what  the  papers  call  '  poor 
circumstances,'"  says  Molly,  lightly.  "Now,  when  I 
marry  and  you  come  to  see  me,  I  shall  send  a  carriage  and 


12  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

a  spirited  pair  of  grays  to  meet  you  at  the  station.     Think 
of  that." 

"I  won't,"  says  Luttrell;  "because  I  don't  believe  I 
would  care  to  see  you  at  all  when — yon  are  married." 
Here,  with  a  rashness  unworthy  of  him,  he  presses,  ever  so 
gently,  the  slender  ringers  within  his  own.  Instantly 
Miss  Massereene,  with  a  marked  ignoring  of  the  suggestion 
in  his  last  speech,  returns  to  her  forgotten  charge. 

"  I  don't  want  to  inconvenience  you,"  she  says,  demurely, 
with  downcast  lids,  "but  when  you  have  quite  done  with 
my  hand  I  think  I  should  like  it  again.  You  see  it  is  awk- 
ward being  without  it,  as  it  is  the  right  one." 

"  I'm  not  proud,"  says  Luttrell,  modestly.  "  I  will  try 
to  make  myself  content  if  you  will  give  me  the  left  one." 

At  this  they  both  laugh  merrily ;  and,  believe  me,  when 
two  people  so  laugh  together,  there  is  very  little  ice  left  to 
be  broken. 

"  And  are  you  really  glad  I  have  come?  "  says  Luttrell, 
bending,  the  better  to  see  into  her  pretty  face.  "  It  sounds 
so  unlikely." 

"When  one  is  starving,  even  dry  bread  is  acceptable," 
returns  Molly,  with  a  swift  but  cruel  glance. 

"I  refuse  to  understand  you.  You  surely  do  not 
mean " 

"  I  mean  this,  that  you  are  not  to  lay  too  much  stress 
on  the  fact  of  my  having  said " 

"  Well,  Luttrell,  where  are  you,  old  fellow?  I  suppose 
you  thought  you  were  quite  forgotten.  Couldn't  come  a 
moment  sooner, — what  with  Letitia's  comments  on  your 
general  appearance  and  my  own  comments  on  my  tobacco's 
disappearance.  However,  here  I  am  at  last.  Have  you 
been  lonely?" 

"Not  very,"  says  Mr.  Luttrell,  sotto  voce,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  Molly. 

"  It  is  John,"  whispers  that  young  lady  mysteriously. 
"Won't  I  catch  it  if  he  finds  me"  out  here  so  late  without 
a  shawl?  I  must  run.  Good-night," — she  moves  away 
from  him  quickly,  but  before  many  steps  have  separated 
them  turns  again,  and,  with  her  fingers  on  her  lips, 
breathes  softly,  kindly — "until  to-morrow."  After 
she  way«s  him  a  last  faint  adieu  and  disappears. 


MOLL  Y  SA  tTJf.  13 


OHAPTEE 

*  In  my  lady's  chamber." 

John  Massereene  was  seven  years  old  his  mother 
died.  When  he  was  seventeen  his  father  had  the  impru- 
dence to  run  away  with  the  favorite  daughter  of  a  rich 
man,  —  which  crime  was  never  forgiven.  Had  there  been 
the  slightest  excuse  for  her  conduct  it  might  have  beea 
otherwise,  but  in  the  eyes  of  her  world  there  was  none. 
That  an  Amherst  of  Herst  Royal  should  be  guilty  of  such 
a  plebeian  trick  as  "  falling  passionately  in  love  "  was  bad 
enough,  but  to  have  her  bestow  that  love  upon  a  man  at 
least  eighteen  years  her  senior,  an  Irishman,  a  mere  engi- 
neer, with  no  money  to  speak  of,  with  nothing  on  earth  te 
recommend  him  beyond  a  handsome  face,  a  charming  man- 
ner, and  a  heart  too  warm  ever  to  grow  old,  was  not  to  be 
tolerated  for  a  moment.  And  Eleanor  Amherst,  from  the 
iour  of  her  elopement,  was  virtually  shrouded  and  laid 
within  her  grave  so  far  as  her  own  family  was  concerned. 

Not  that  they  need  have  hurried  over  her  requiem,  as  the 
poor  soul  was  practically  laid  there  in  the  fourth  year  of 
her  happy  married  life,  dying  of  the  same  fever  that  had 
carried  off  her  husband  two  days  before,  and  leaving  her 
three-year-old  daughter  in  the  care  of  her  step-son. 

At  twenty-one,  therefore,  John  Massereene  found  him- 
self alone  in  the  world,  with  about  three  hundred  pounds 
a  year  and  a  small,  tearful,  clinging,  forlorn  child.  Hav- 
ing followed  his  father's  profession,  more  from  a  desire  t© 
gratify  that  father  than  from  direct  inclination,  he  found, 
when  too  late,  that  he  neither  liked  it  nor  did  it  like  him. 
He  had,  as  he  believed,  a  talent  for  farming;  so  that  when, 
on  the  death  of  a  distant  relation,  he  found  himself,  when 
all  was  told,  the  possessor  of  seven  hundred  pounds  a  year, 
he  bought  Brooklyn,  a  modest  place  in  one  of  the  English 
shires,  married  his  first  love,  and  carried  her  and  Mollj 
home  to  it. 

Onoe  or  twice  in  the  early  part  of  her  life  he  had  made 
an  appeal  to  old  Mr.  Amherst,  Molly's  grandfather,  on  her 
behalf,  —  mor«  from  a  sense  of  duty  owing  to  her  than  from 
any  desire  to  rid  himself  of  the  child,  who  Lud,  ii 


U  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

with  her  pretty,  coaxing  ways,  made  a  very  cozy  nest  f 01 
herself  in  the  deepest  recesses  of  his  large  heart.  But  all 
such  appeals  had  been  unavailing.  So  that  Molly  had 
grown  from  baby  to  child,  from  child  to  girl,  without  hav- 
ing so  much  as  seen  her  nearest  relations,  although  Hera 
B-oyal  was  situated  in  the  very  county  next  to  hers. 

Even  now,  in  spite  of  her  haying  attained  her  eighteenth 
year,  this  ostracism  is  a  matter  of  the  most  perfect  indiffer» 
ence  to  Molly.  She  has  been  bred  in  a  very  sound  con- 
tempt for  the  hard  old  man  who  so  cruelly  neglected  hear 
mother, — the  poor  mother  whose  love  she  never  missed,  so 
faithfully  has  John  fulfilled  her  dying  wishes.  There  ia 
no  poverty  about  this  love,  in  which  she  has  grown  and 
strengthened :  it  is  rich,  all-sufficing.  Even  Letitia's  com- 
ing only  added  another  ray  to  its  brightness. 

They  are  a  harmonious  family,  the  Massereenes;  they 
blend ;  they  seldom  disagree.  Letitia,  with  her  handsoma 
English  face,  her  tall,  posee  figure,  and  ready  smile,  makes 
a  delicious  centre-piece ;  John  a  good  background ;  Molly 
a  bit  of  perfect  sunlight ;  the  children  flecks  of  vivid  color- 
ing here  and  there.  They  are  an  easy,  laughter-loving 
people,  with  a  rare  store  of  contentment.  They  are  much 
affected  by  those  in  their  immediate  neighborhood.  Theii 
servants  have  a  good  time  of  it.  They  are  never  out  u/ 
temper  when  dinner  is  a  quarter  of  an  hour  late.  They  aJJ 
very  much  admire  Molly,  and  Molly  very  much  agrees  with 
them.  They  are  fond  of  taking  their  tea  in  summer  in  the 
open  air ;  they  are  not  fond  of  over-early  rising ;  they  never 
bore  you  with  a  description  of  the  first  faint  beams  of 
dawn ;  they  fail  to  see  any  beauty  in  the  dew  at  five  o'clock 
in  the  morning ;  they  are  very  reasonable  people. 

Yet  the  morning  after  his  arrival,  Luttrell,  jumping  out 
of  his  bed  at  eight  o'clock,  finds,  on  looking  out  of  his 
window  that  overhangs  the  garden,  Flora  already  among 
her  flowers.  Drawing  back  hastily, — he  is  a  modest  young^ 
man, — he  grows  suddenly  energetic  and  makes  good  speed 
with  his  toilet. 

When  he  is  half  dressed — that  is,  when  his  hair  is 
brushed;  but  as  yet  hie  shirt  is  guiltless  of  a  waistcoat — he 
cannot  refrain  from  looking  forth  again,  to  see  if  she  may 
yet  be  there,  and,  looking,  meets  her  eyes. 

He  is  slightly  abashed ;  she  is  not.  Mr.  Massereene  in 
Ms  shirt  and  trousers  is  a  thing  very  frequently  seen  at  his 
window  during  the  sumsaer  mornings.  Mr.  Luttreil  pro- 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  15 

seats  much  the  same  appearance.  It  certainly  does  occui 
to  Molly  that  of  the  two  men  the  new-comer  is  decidedly 
the  better  looking  of  the  two,  whereat,  without  any  treach- 
ery toward  John,  she  greatly  rejoices.  It  does  not  occur 
to  her  that  a  blush  at  this  moment  would  be  a  blush  in  the 
right  place.  On  the  contrary,  she  nods  gayly  at  him,  and 
calls  out: 

"  Hurry!  You  cannot  think  what  a  delicious  morning 
it  is."  And  then  goes  on  with  her  snipping  and  paring 
with  the  heartiest  unconcern.  After  which  LuttrelFs 
method  of  getting  into  the  remainder  of  his  clothes  can 
only  be  described  as  a  scramble. 

"  How  did  you  sleep?  "  asks  Molly,  a  few  minutes  later, 
when  he  has  joined  her,  looking  up  from  the  rose-bush  over 
which  she  is  bending,  that  holds  no  flower  so  sweet  as  her 
own  self.  "Well,  I  hope?" 

"  Very  well,  thank  you,"  with  a  smile,  his  eyes  fixed  im- 
movably upon  the  fresh  beauty  of  her  face. 

"  You  look  suspicious,"  says  she,  with  a  little  laugh. 
"  Are  you  thinking  my  question  odd?  I  know  when  people 
are  put  over-night  in  a  haunted  chamber  they  are  always 
asked  the  next  morning  whether  thef  '  slept  well,'  in  the 
fond  hope  that  they  didn't.  But  you  need  not  be  nervous. 
Nothing  so  inspiriting " 

"Is  that  a  joke?"  demands  he,  interrupting  her, 
gravely. 

"  Eh?  Oh,  no!  how  could  you  think  me  guilty  of  such 
a  thing?  I  mean  that  nothing  so  hopeful  as  an  undenia- 
ble ghost  has  ever  yet  appeared  at  Brooklyn." 

"Are  you  sure?  Perhaps,  then,  I  am  to  be  the  happy 
discoverer,  as  this  morning  early,  about  dawn,  there  came 
an  unearthly  tapping  at  my  window  that  woke  me,  much 
to  my  disgust.  I  got  up,  but  when  I  had  opened  the  shut- 
ters could  see  nothing.  Was  not  that  a  visitation?  I 
looked  at  my  watch,  and  found  it  was  past  four  o'clock. 
Then  I  crept  into  my  bed  again,  crestfallen, — '  sold '  with 
regard  to  an  adventure." 

"  That  was  my  magpie,"  cries  Molly,  with  a  merry 
laugh:  "  he  always  comes  pecking  at  that  hour,  naughty 
fellow.  Oh,  what  a  tame  ending  to  your  romance !  Your 
beautiful  ghost  come  to  visit  you  from  unknown  regions, 
clad  in  white  and  rustling  garments,  has  resolved  itself 
into  a  lame  bird,  rather  poverty-stricken  in  the  matter  of 
feathers. " 


16  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

"I  take  it  rather  hardly  that  your  dependent  should 
come  to  disturb  me,"  says  Luttrell,  reproachfully.  "  What 
hare  I  done  to  him,  or  how  have  I  ingratiated  myself,  that 
he  should  forsake  you  for  me?  I  did  not  think  even  a 
meagre  bird  could  have  shown  such  outre  taste.  What 
fancy  has  he  for  my  window?  " 

"Your  window?"  says  Molly,  quickly;  then  as  quickly 
recollecting,  she  stops  short,  blushing  a  warm  and  lovely 
crimson.  "  Oh,  of  course, — yes,  it  was  odd/7  she  says, 
and,  breaking  down  under  the  weight  of  her  unhappy 
blush,  busies  herself  eagerly  with  her  flowers. 

"Have  I  taken  your  bedroom?"  asks  he,  anxiously, 
watching  with  cruel  persistency  the  soft  roses  that  bloom 
again  at  his  words.  "  Yes,  I  see  I  have.  That  is  too  bad ; 
and  any  room  would  have  been  good  enough  for  a  soldier. 
Are  you  sure  you  don't  hate  me  for  all  the  inconvenience 
I  have  caused  you  ?  " 

"I  can't  be  sure,"  says  Molly,  "yet.  Give  me  time. 
But  this  I  do  know,  that  John  will  quarrel  with  us  if  we 
remain  out  here  any  longer,  as  breakfast  must  be  quite 
ready  by  this.  Come." 

"  When  you  spoke  of  my  chamber  as  being  haunted,  a 
little  time  ago,"  says  Luttrell,  walking  beside  her  on  the 
gravel  path,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  "  you  came 
very  near  the  truth.  After  what  you  have  just  told  me, 
how  shall  I  keep  from  dreaming  about  you?  " 

"  Don't  keep  from  it,"  says  she,  sweetly ;  "  go  on  dream 
ing  about  me  as  much  as  ever  you  like,     /don't  mind." 

"But  I  might,"  says  Luttrell,  "when  it  was  too 
late." 

"True,"  murmurs  Molly,  innocently:  "so  you  might. 
John  says  all  dreams  arise  from  indigestion." 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

*  As  through  the  land  at  eve  we  went. " — TEJOTYSOW. 

SEVEN  long  blissful  summer  days  have  surrendered  them- 
selves to  the  greedy  past.  It  is  almost  July.  To-day  ia 
Wednesday, — to-morrow  June  will  be  no  more. 

"  Molly ,"  says  Mr.  Massereeiie,  with  the  laudabk  in  ten- 


M9LL  Y  ISA  Wff.  17 

tion  of  rousing  Molly's  ire,  "  this  is  the  day  for  which  we 
have  accepted  Lady  Barton's  invitation  to  go  to  the  Castle, 
to  meet  Lord  and  Lady  Rossmere/' 

"  '  This  is  the  cat  that  killed  the  rat.,  that  did  something 
or  other  in  the  house  that  Jack  built/  "  interrupts  Molly, 
naughtily. 

"  And  on  this  occasion  you  have  not  been  invited/'  goes 

on  John,  serenely,  "  which  shows  she  does  not  think  you 

•t respectable, — not  quite  fit  for  polite  society;  so  you  must 

stay  at  home,  like  the  bold  little  girl,  and  meditate  on 

your  misdemeanors." 

' '  Lady  Barton  is  a  very  intelligent  person,  who  fully  un- 
derstands my  abhorrence  of  old  fogies/'  says  Miss  Masse- 
reene,  with  dignity. 

"  Sour  grapes,"  says  John.  "But,  now  that  you  have 
given  such  an  unfair  turn  to  Lady  Barton's  motives,  I  feel 
it  my  duty  to  explain  the  exact  truth  to  Luttrell.  When 
last,  my  dear  Tedcastle,  Molly  was  invited  to  meet  the 
Rossmeres,  she  behaved  so  badly  and  flirted  so  outrage- 
ously with  his  withered  lordship,  that  he  became  perfectly 
imbecile  toward  the  close  of  the  entertainment,  and  his 
poor  old  wife  was  reduced  almost  to  the  verge  of  tears.  I 
blushed  for  her;  I  did  indeed." 

"Oh,  John!  how  can  you  say  such  things  before  Mr. 
.Loittrell?  If  he  is  foolish  enough  to  believe  you,  think 
wnat  a  dreadful  opinion  he  will  have  of  me  ! "  With  a 
lovely  smile  at  Luttrell  across  the  bowl  of  flowers  that  or- 
naments the  breakfast-table.  "And  with  such  a  man, 
too !  A  terrible  old  person  who  has  forgotten  his  native 
language  and  can  only  mumble,  and  who  has  not  got  one 
tooth  in  his  mouth  or  one  hair  on  his  head,  and  no  flesh  at 
all  to  speak  of." 

"  What  a  fetching  description !"  says  Luttrell.  "You 
excite  my  curiosity.  He  is  not  '  on  view/  is  he?  " 

"  Not  yet,"  says  Molly,  with  an  airy  laugh.  "  Probably 
when  he  dies  they  will  embalm  him,  and  forward  him  to 
the  British  Museum,  as  a  remarkable  species  of  his  kind ; 
and  then  we  shall  all  get  the  full  value  of  one  shilling.  I 
myself  would  walk  to  London  to  see  that." 

"  So  would  I,"  says  Luttrell,  "  if  you  would  promise  \o 
tell  me  the  day  you  are  going." 

"  Letitia,  I  feel  myself  de  trop,  whatever  you  may/'  ex- 
eiaims  John,  rising.  "  And  see  how  time  flies ;  it  is  almost 
Ualf-past  ten.  Really,  we  grow  lazier  every  day.  I  shrd« 


der  to  think  at  what  hour  I  shall  get  my  breakfast  by  the 
time  I  am  an  old  man." 

(Poor  John!) 

"Why,  you  are  as  old  as  the  hills  this  moment,"  says 
Molly,  drawing  down  his  kind  face,  that  bears  such  a 
strong  resemblance  to  her  own,  to  bestow  upon  it  a  soft 
sweet  kiss.  "  You  are  not  to  grow  any  elder, — mind  that ; 
you  are  to  keep  on  looking  just  as  you  look  now  fo/ever, 
or  I  will  not  forgive  you.  Now  go  away  and  make  your- 
self charming  for  your  Lady  Barton." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  spend  three  hours  before  my  locking- 
glass,"  says  John,  "whenever  I  go  anywhere."  He  is 
smoothing  her  beautiful  hair  with  loving  fingers  as  he 
speaks.  "But  I  think  I  will  utter  one  word  of  warning, 
Ted,  before  I  leave  you  to  her  tender  mercies  for  the  day. 
Don't  give  in  to  her.  If  you  do,  she  will  lead  you  an 
awful  life.  At  first  she  bullied  me  until  I  hardly  dared  to 
call  my  soul  my  own ;  but  when  I  found  Letitia  I  plucked 
up  spirit  (you  know  a  worm  will  turn),  and  ventured  to 
defy  her,  and  since  that  existence  has  been  bearable." 

"Letitia,  come  to  my  defense,"  says  Molly,  in  a  tragic 
tone,  stretching  out  her  arms  to  her  sister-in-law,  who  has 
been  busy  pacifying  her  youngest  hope.  As  he  has  at  last, 
however,  declared  himself  content  with  five  lumps  of  sugar 
and  eight  sweet  biscuits,  she  finds  time  to  look  up  and 
smile  brightly  at  Molly. 

"  Letitia,  my  dear,  don't  perjure  yourself,"  saye  John. 
"You  know  I  speak  the  truth.  A  last  word,  Luttrell." 
He  is  standing  behind  his  sister  as  he  speaks,  and  taking 
her  arms  he  puts  her  in  a  chair,  and  placing  her  elbows  on 
the  table,  so  that  her  pretty  face  sinks  into  her  hands,  goes 
on:  "The  moment  you  see  her  take  this  altitude,  run! 
don't  pause  to  think,  or  speculate ;  run !  Because  it  al- 
ways means  mischief;  you  may  know  then  that  she  has 
quite  made  up  her  mind.  I  speak  from  experience. 
Good-bye,  children.  I  hope  you  will  enjoy  each  other's 
society.  I  shall  be  busy  until  I  leave,  so  you  probably 
won't  see  me  again." 

As  Letitia  follows  him  from  the  room,  Molly  turns  her 
eyes  on  Luttrell. 

"  "  Are  you  afraid  of  me?  "  asks  she,  with  a  glance  half 
questioning,  half  coquettish. 

"  I  am/'  replies  he,  slowly. 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN,  \$ 

M  ITow  yon  are  all  my  own  property, "  says  Molly,  gayly< 
three  hours  later,  after  they  have  bidden  good-bye  to  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Massereene,  and  eaten  their  own  luncheon  t£te-ct> 
tete.  "  You  cannot  escape  me.  And  what  shall  we  do 
with  ourselves  this  glorious  afternoon?  Walk? — talk? — 
or " 

"  Talk,"  says  Luttrell,  lazily. 

"No,  walk,"  says  Molly,  emphatically. 

"  If  you  have  made  up  your  mind  to  it,  of  course  there 
is  little  use  in  my  suggesting  anything." 

"  Very  little.  Not  that  you  ever  do  suggest  anything," 
maliciously.  "  Now  stay  there,  and  resign  yourself  to 
your  fate,  while  I  go  and  put  on  my  hat." 

Along  the  grass,  over  the  lawn,  down  to  the  water's 
edge,  over  the  water,  and  into  the  green  fields  beyond,  the 
young  man  follows  his  guide.  Above,  the  blazing  sun  is 
shining  with  all  its  might  upon  the  goodly  earth ;  beneath, 
the  grass  is  browning,  withering  beneath  its  rays ;  and  in 
the  man's  heart  has  bloomed  that  tenderest,  cruelest, 
sweetest  of  all  delights,  first  love. 

He  has  almost  ceased  to  deny  this  fact  to  himself. 
Already  he  knows,  by  the  miserable  doubts  that  pursue 
him,  how  foolishly  he  lies  to  himself  when  he  thinks  other- 
wise. The  sweet  carelessness,  the  all-satisfying  joy  in  the 
present  that  once  was  his,  has  now  in  his  hour  of  need 
proved  false,  and,  flying,  leaves  but  a  dull  unrest  in  its 
place.  He  has  fallen  madly,  gladly,  idiotically  in  love 
with  beautiful  Molly  Massereene. 

Every  curve  of  her  pliant  body  is  to  him  an  untold  poem ; 
every  touch  of  her  hands  is  a  new  delight ;  every  tone  of 
her  voice  is  as  a  song  rising  from  out  of  the  gloom  of  the 
lonely  night.  ,• 

"  Here  you  are  to  stand  and  admire  our  potatoes,"  says 
Molly,  standing  still,  and  indicating  with  a  little  sweep  of 
her  hand  the  field  in  question.  "  Did  you  ever  see  so  fine 
a  crop?  And  did  you  notice  how  dry  and  floury  they  were 
at  dinner  yesterday?" 

"I  did,"  says  Luttrell,  lying  very  commendably. 

41  Good  boy.  We  take  very  great  pride  out  of  our  pota- 
toes (an  Irish  dish,  you  will  remember),  more  especially  as 
every  year  we  find  ours  are  superior  to  Lord  Barton's. 
There  is  a  certain  solace  in  that,  considering  how  far  short 
we  fall  in  other  matters  when  compared  with  him.  Here 
is  the  oat-field.  Am  I  to  understand  you  feel  admiration?  " 


£6  M&LL  Y 

"  Of  the  most  intense,"  gravely. 

"  Good  again,  We  rather  feared  " — speaking  in  the  ai- 
1'eoted,  stilted  style  of  a  farming  report  she  has  adopted 
throughout — "last  month  was  so  deplorably  wet,  that  the* 
oats  would  be  a  failure ;  but  we  lived  in  hope,  and  ycu  may 
mark  the  result  here  again :  we  are  second  to  none.  Tho 
wheat-field "  With  another  slight  comprehensive  ges- 
ture. "  By  the  bye,"  pausing  to  examine  his  face,  "am 
I  fulfilling  my  duties  as  a  hostess  ?  am  I  entertaining 
you?" 

"  Very  much  indeed.  The  more  particularly  that  I  was 
never  so  entertained  before." 

"  I  am  fortunate.  Well,  that  is  the  wheat.  I  don't 
know  that  I  can  expect  you  to  go  into  ecstasies  over  it,  as 
I  confess  to  me  it  appears  more  or  less  weak  about  the 
head.  Could  one  say  that  wheat  was  imbecile?" 

"  In  these  days,"  politely,  "  one  mav  say  anything  one 
likes." 

"  Yes  ?  You  see  that  rain  did  some  damage;  but  after 
all  it  might  have  been  worse." 

"  You  will  excuse  my  asking  the  question,"  says  Lut- 
trell,  gravely,  "but  did  you  ever  write  for  the  Farmer's 
Gazette  f  " 

"Never,  as  yet.  But,"  with  an  irrepressible  smile, 
"  your  words  suggest  to  me  brilliant  possibilities.  Perhaps 
were  I  to  sit  down  and  tell  every  one  in  trisyllables  what 
they  already  know  only  too  well  about  the  crops,  and  the 
weather,  and  the  Colorado  beetle,  and  so  forth,  I  might 
perchance  wake  up  some  morning  to  find  myself  famous." 

"I  haven't  the  faintest  doubt  of  it,"  says  Tedcastle, 
with  such  flattering  warmth  that  they  both  break  into  a 
merry  laugh.  Not  that  there  is  anything  at  all  in  the  joke 
worthy  of  such  a  joyous  outburst,  but  because  they  are 
both  so  young  and  both  so  happy. 

"  Do  you  think  I  have  done  enough  duty  for  one  day?  " 
asks  Molly.  "  Have  I  been  prosy  enough  to  allow  of  my 
leaving  off  now?  Because  I  don't  think  I  have  got  any- 
thing more  to  say  about  the  coming  harvest,  and  I 
wouldn't  care  to  say  it  if  I  had." 

"  Do  you  expect  me  to  say  that  I  found  you  '  prosy '?  " 

"  If  you  will  be  so  very  kind.  And  you  are  quite  sure 
no  one  could  accuse  me  of  taking  advantage  of  JohnV  and 
Letty's  absence  to  be  frivolous  in  my  conversation?  " 

"Utterly  positive." 


MOLLY  BAWN.  21 

"  And  you  -will  tell  John  what  a  sedate  and  gentle  com- 
panion I  was?" 

"I  will  indeed,  and  more, — much  more." 

"  On  the  contrary,  not  a  word  more:  if  you  do  you  will 
spoil  all.  And  now,"  says  Molly,  with  a  little  soft,  linger- 
ing smile,  "  as  a  reward  for  your  promises,  come  with  me 
to  the  top  of  yonder  hill,  and  I  will  show  you  a  lovely 
view." 

"  Is  it  not  delicious  here?  "  suggests  Mr.  Luttrell,  who 
can  scarcely  be  called  energetic,  and  who  finds  it  a  difficult 
matter  to  grow  enthusiastic  over  landscapes  when  op- 
pressed by  a  broiling  sun. 

"  What!  tired  already?"  says  Molly,  with  fine  disregard 
of  subterfuge. 

"  No,  oh,  no,"  weakly. 

"But  you  are,"  reproachfully.  "You  are  quite  done 
up.  Why,  what  would  you  do  if  you  were  ordered  on  a 
long  day's  march?" 

"  I  dare  say  I  should  survive  it,"  says  Tedcastle,  shortly, 
who  is  rather  offended  at  her  putting  it  in  this  light. 

"Well,  perhaps  you  might;  but  you  certainly  would 
have  nothing  to  boast  of.  Now,  look  at  me :  I  am  as  fresh 
as  when  we  started."  And  in  truth,  as  she  stands  before 
him,  in  her  sky-blue  gown,  he  sees  she  is  as  cool  and  bright 
and  unruffled  as  when  they  left  the  house  three-quarters  of 
an  hour  ago.  "  Well,"  with  a  resigned  sigh  that  speaks  of 
disappointment,  "stay  here  until  I  run  up, — I  love  the 
place, — and  I  will  join  you  afterward." 

"  Not  I! "  indignantly.  "  I'm  good  yet  for  so  mnuli  ex- 
ertion, and  I  don't  believe  I  could  exist  without  you  for  so 
long.  'Call,  and  I  follow — I  follow/  even  though  '1 
die/  "  he  adds  to  himself,  in  a  tone  of  melancholy. 

Tip  the  short  but  steep  hill  they  toil  in  silence.  Half- 
way Miss  Massereene  pauses,  either  to  recover  breath  or  to 
give  encouragement. 

"  On  the  top  there  is  always  a  breeze,"  she  says,  in  the 
voice  one  adopts  when  determined  to  impress  upon  the 
listener  what  one's  own  heart  knows  to  be  doubtful. 

"  Is  there?  "  says  Luttrell,  gloomily,  and  with  much  dis- 
belief. 

At  length  they  gain  the  wished-for  top.  They  stand  to- 
gether, Molly  with  her  usually  pale  cheeks  a  little  flushed 
by  the  exercise,  but  otherwise  calm  and  collected ;  Luttrell 
decidedly  the  worse  for  wear.  And,  yes,  th^rs  actually  is 


22  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

a  breeze, — a  sighing,  rustling,  unmistakable  breeze,  that 
rushes  through  their  hair  and  through  their  fingers,  and  is 
as  a  draught  from  Olympus. 

"There,  didn't  I  tell  you?"  cries  Molly,  with  all  the 
suspicious  haste  and  joy  that  betrays  how  weak  has  been 
her  former  hope.  "Now,  do  say  you  are  glad  I  brought 
you  up." 

"  What  need?  My  only  happiness  is  being  with  you,"j 
says  the  young  man,  softly. 

"  See  how  beautiful  the  land  is, — as  far  as  one  can  dis- 
cern all  green  and  gold,"  says  she,  unheeding  his  sub- 
dued tenderness.  "Honestly,  I  do  feel  a  deep  interest  in 
farming ;  and  of  all  the  grain  that  grows  I  dearly  love  the 
barley.  First  comes  the  nice  plowed  brown  earth ;  then 
the  ragged  bare  suspicion  of  green ;  then  the  strengthen- 
ing and  perfecting  of  that  green  until  the  whole  earth  is 
hidden  away ;  then  the  soft,  juicy  look  of  the  young  blades 
nodding  and  waving  at  each  other  in  the  wind,  that  seems 
almost  tender  of  them,  and  at  last  the  fleecy,  downy  ears 
all  whispering  together." 

' '  When  you  speak  in  that  tone  you  make  me  wish  my- 
self a  barleycorn,"  says  Tedcastle,  smiling.  "Sit  down 
here  beside  me,  will  }TOU,  and  tell  me  why  your  brother 
calls  you  '  Molly  Bawn  '?" 

"  I  hardly  know/'  sinking  down  near  him  on  the  short, 
cool  grass :  "it  was  a  name  he  gave  me  when  I  was  a  little 
one.  John  has  ever  been  rny  father,  my  mother,  my  all," 
says  the  girl,  a  soft  and  lovely  dew  of  earnest  affection 
coming  into  her  eyes.  "  Were  I  to  love  him  all  my  life 
with  twice  the  love  I  now  bear  him,  I  would  scarcely  be 
grateful  enough." 

"  Happy  John!     Molly!     What  a  pretty  name  it  is." 

"  But  not  mine  really.  No.  I  was  christened  Eleanor., 
after  my  poor  mother,  whose  history  you  know.  '  Bawn  y 
means  fair.  'Fair  Molly/  "  says  she,  with  a  smile,  turn- 
ing to  him  her  face,  that  resembles  nothing  so  much  as  a 
newly-opened  flower.  "I  had  hair  quite  golden  when  a 
child.  See,"  tilting  her  hat  so  that  it  falls  backward 
from  her  head  and  lies  on  the  greensward  behind.  "It  is 
hardly  dark  yet." 

"It  is  the  most  beautiful  hair  in  the  world,"  8a}T8  he, 
touching  with  gentle,  reverential  fingers  the  silken  coils 
that  glint  and  shimmer  in  the  sunlight,  u  And  it  is  a 
name  that  suits  you, — and  you  only." 


WOLL  Y  BA  WN>  23 

Did  I  never  sing  you  the  old  Irish  song  I  elaim  as  mv 


"  You  never  sang  for  me  at  all." 

"  What!  you  have  been  here  a  whole  week,  and  I  have 
never  sung  for  you?"  With  widely-opened  eyes  of  pure 
surprise.  "  What  could  I  have  been  thinking  about?  Do 
you  know,  I  sing  very  nicely."  This  without  the  faintest 
atom  of  conceit.  "  Listen,  then,  and  I  will  sing  to  you 
now." 

With  her  hands  clasped  around  her  knees,  her  head  bare, 
ter  tresses  a  little  loosened  by  the  wind,  and  her  large  eyes 
4xed  upon  the  distant  hills,  she  thus  sweetly  sings  : 

"Oh,  Molly  Bawn!  why  leave  me  pining, 

All  lonely  waiting  here  for  you, 
While  the  stars  above  are  brightly  shining, 
Because  they've  nothing  else  to  do  ? 
Oh,  Mo'llyBawn!  Molly  Bawn  ! 

"  The  flowers  late  were  open  keeping, 

To  try  a  rival  blush  with  you, 
But  their  mother,  Nature,  set  them  sleeping 
With  their  rosy  faces  washed  in  dew. 
Oh-  Molly  Bawn!  Molly  Bawn  I 

**  The  village  watch-dog  here  is  snarling  ; 

He  takes  me  for  a  thief,  you  see; 
For  he  knows  I'd  steal  you,  Molly  darling, 
And  then  transported  I  should  be  ! 
Oh,  Molly  Bawn!  Molly  Bawn  !  " 

"  An  odd  old  song,  isn't  it?  "  she  says,  presently,  glanc- 
ing at  him  curiously,  when  she  has  finished  singing,  and 
waited,  and  yet  heard  no  smallest  sound  of  praise.  "  You 
do  not  speak.  Of  what  are  you  thinking?  " 

"  Of  the  injustice  of  it,"  says  he,  in  a  low,  thoughtful 
tone.  "  Had  you  not  a  bounteous  store  already  when  this 
last  great  charm  was  added  on?  Some  poor  wretches  have 
nothing,  some  but  a  meagre  share,  while  you  have  wrested 
from  Fortune  all  her  best  gifts,  —  beauty  -  " 

"No,  no!  stop!"  cries  Molly,  gayly;  "before  you 
enumerate  the  good  things  that  belong  to  me,  remember 
that  I  still  lack  the  chiefest:  I  have  no  money.  I  am 
without  doubt  the  most  poverty-stricken  of  your  acquaint- 
ances. Can  any  confession  be  more  humiliating?  Good 
sir,  my  face  is  indeed  my  fortune.  Or  is  it  my  voice?" 
pausing  suddenly,  as  though  a  cold  breath  from  the 


84  'M9LLY  BAWN, 

dim  hereafter  had  blown  across  her  cheek.  "  I  hardly 
know." 

"  A  rich  fortune  either  way." 

"And  here  I  am  recklessly  imperiling  one,"  hastily 
putting  on  her  hat  once  more,  "by  exposing  my  precious 
akin  to  that  savage  gun.  Come, — it  is  almost  cool  now, — 
let  us  have  a  good  race  down  the  hill."  She  slips  her 
slender  fingers  within  his, — a  lovable  trick  of  hers,  inno- 
cent of  coquetry, — and,  Luttrell  conquering  with  a  sigh  a 
wild  desire  to  clasp  and  kiss  the  owner  of  those  little  cling- 
ing fingers  on  the  spot,  together  they  run  down  the  slope 
into  the  longer  grass  below,  and  so,  slowly  and  more  deco- 
rously, journey  homeward. 


On  their  return  they  find  the  house  still  barren  of  in- 
mates ;  no  sign  of  the  master  or  mistress  anywhere.  Even 
the  servants  are  invisible.  "  It  might  almost  be  the  en- 
chanted palace,"  says  Molly. 

Two  of  the  children,  seeing  her  on  the  lawn,  break  from 
their  nurse,  who  is  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  iust,  with  her 
broad  back  against  an  elm,  and  running  to  Molly,  fling  their 
arms  around  her.  She  rewards  them  with  a  kiss  apiece, 
one  of  which  Luttrell  surreptitiously  purloins  from  the 
prettiest. 

"  Oh,  you  have  come  back,  Molly.  And  where  have 
you  been?  " 

"  Over  the  hills  and  far  away." 

"Very  far  away?  But  you  brought  her  back  again," 
nodding  a  golden  head  gravely  at  Luttrell;  "and  nurse 
said  you  wouldn't.  She  said  all  soldiers  were  wicked,  and 
that  some  day  you  would  steal  our  Molly.  But  you 
won't,"  coaxingly :  "  will  you,  now?  " 

Luttrell  and  Molly  laugh  and  redden  a  little. 

"  I  doubt  if  I  would  be  able/'  he  says,  without  raising 
hla  eyes  from  the  child's  face. 

"I  don't  think  you  are  a  soldier  at  all,"  declares  the 
darker  maiden,  coming  more  boldly  to  the  front,  as 
though  fortified  by  this  assertion.  "You  have  no  sword; 
and  there  never  was  a  soldier  without  a  sword,  was 
there?" 

"I  begin  to  feel  distinctly  ashamed  of  myself,"  says 
Luttrell.  "  I  have  a  sword,  Daisy,  somewhere.  But  not 


MOLL  Y  BA  JVN.  25 

here.     The  next  time  I  come  I  will  bring  it  with  me  for 
your  special  delectation." 

"  Did  you  ever  cut  off  any  one's  head?  "  asks  the  timid, 
fair-haired  Renee,  in  the  background,  moving  a  few  steps 
nearer  to  him,  with  rising  hope  in  her  voice. 

"  Miss  Massereene,  if  you  allow  this  searching  examina- 
tion to  go  on,  I  shall  sink  into  the  ground,"  says  LuttrelL 
"  I  feel  as  if  the  eyes  of  Europe  were  upon  me.  Why  can- 
not I  boast  that  I  have  sent  a  thousand  blacks  to  glory? 
No,  Eenee,  with  shame  1  confess  it,  I  am  innocent  of 
bloodshed." 

"I  am  so  glad!"  says  the  darker  Daisy,  while  the 
gentler  looking  child  turns  from  him  with -open  disap- 
pointment. 

"  Do  you  think  you  can  manage  to  amuse  yourself  for  a 
little  while?  "  says  Molly.  "  Because  I  must  leave  you;  I 
promised  Letty  to  see  after  some  of  her  housekeeping  for 
her:  I  won't  be  too  long,"  with  a  view  to  saving  him 
from  despair. 

"I  will  see  what  a  cigar  can  do  for  me/'  replies  he, 
mournfully.  "  But  remember  how  heavily  time  drags — 
sometimes." 

Kissing  her  hand  to  him  gayly,  she  trips  away  over  the 
grass,  leaving  him  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  children. 
They,  with  all  the  frightful  energy  of  youth,  devote  them- 
selves to  his  service,  and,  seizing  on  him,  carry  him  off  to 
their  especial  sanctum,  where  they  detain  him  in  durance 
vile  until  the  welcome  though  stentorian  lungs  of  the  nurse 
make  themselves  heard. 

"There,  you  may  go  now,"  says  Daisy,  giving  him  a 
last  ungrateful  push ;  and  as  in  a  body  they  abscond,  he 
finds  himself  depressed,  but  free.  Not  only  free,  but 
alone.  This  brings  him  back  to  thoughts  of  Molly.  How 
long  she  is!  Women  never  do  know  what  time  means. 
He  will  walk  round  to  the  yard  and  amuse  himself  with  the 
dogs  until  she  has  finished  her  tiresome  business. 

Now,  the  kitchen  window  looks,  out  upon  the  path  he 
means  to  tread  ; — not  only  the  kitchen  window,  but  Molly. 
And  as  Luttrell  comes  by,  with  his  head  bent  and  a  general 
air  of  moodiness  about  him,  she  is  so  far  flattered  by  his 
evident  dullness  that  she  cannot  refrain  from  tapping  at  the 
glass  to  call  his  attention. 

"  Have  you  been  enjoying  yourself?  "  asks  she,  inno- 
cently. "  You  look  as  if  you  had." 


26  MOLL  Y  BA  WN, 

He  starts  as  her  voice  BO  unexpectedly  meets  his  ear,  and 
turns  upon  her  a  face  from  which  all  ennui  has  ned. 

"Do  I?"  he  says.  "Then  my  looks  lie.  Enjoying 
myself,  with  a  pack  of  small  demons !  For  what  do  you 
take  me?  No,  I  have  heen  wretched.  What  on  earth  are 
you  doing  down  there?  You  have  been  hours  about  it 
already.  Surely,  whatever  it  is,  it  must  be  done  now.  If 
you  don't  come  out  shortly  you  will  have  murder  on  your 
soul,  as  I  feel  suicidal." 

"  I  can't  come  yet." 

"  Then  would  you  let  me— might  I " 

"  Oh,  com'e  here  if  you  like,  says  Molly.  "  /  don't 
mind,  if  you  don't." 

Without  waiting  further  invitation,  Luttrell  goes  rapidly 
round,  descends  the  kitchen  steps,  and  presently  finds  him- 
self in  Molly's  presence. 

It  is  a  pretty  old-fashioned,  low-ceilinged  kitchen,  full  of 
quaint  corners  and  impossible  cupboards  so  high  up  in  the 
Avail  as  at  first  sight  to  be  pronounced  useless. 

A  magnificent  fire  burns  redly,  yet  barely  causes  discom- 
fort. (Why  is  it  that  a  fire  in  the  kitchen  fails  to  afflict 
one  as  it  would,  if  lit  in  summer,  in  the  drawing-room  or 
parlor?)  Long,  low  benches,  white  as  snow,  run  by  the 
walls.  The  dresser — is  there  anything  prettier  than  a  well- 
kept  dresser? — shines  out  conceitedly  from  its  own  place, 
full  of  its  choicest  bravery.  In  the  middle  of  the  gleam- 
ing tiles  stands  the  table,  and  beside  it  stands  Molly. 

Such  a  lovely  Molly ! — a  very  goddess  of  a  Molly ! 

Her  white  arms,  bare  to  the  elbow,  are  covered  with 
flour;  a  little  patch  of  it  has  found  a  resting-place  on  the 
right  side  of  her  hair,  where  undoubtedly  one  hand  must 
have  gone  to  punish  some  amorous  lock  that  would  wander 
near  her  lips.  Her  eyes  are  full  of  light ;  her  very  lips  aro 
smiling.  Jane,  the  cook,  at  a  respectful  di  stance,  is  half 
ashamed  at  the  situation  of  her  young  lady;  the  young 
lady  is  not  at  all  ashamed. 

"Do  you  like  me?"  cries  she,  holding  her  floury  arms 
aloft.  "Are  you  lost  in  admiration?  Ah!  you  have  yet 
to  learn  how  universal  are  my  gifts.  I  can  cook!  " 

"  Can  you?  "  says  Luttrell,  with  a  grimace.  "  What  are 
you  making  now?  I  am  anxious  to  know." 

"  Positively,"  bending  a  little  forward,  the  better  to  see 
Mm;  "you  look  it.  Why?" 

"That  I  may  avoid  it  by  and  by."     Here,  with  a  last 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  27 

taint  gammer  of  prudence,  he  retiree  to-  the  other  end  of. 
the  table. 

"  Have  you  come  here  to  insult  me  in  my  own  domain?  " 
cries  Molly  wrathfully.  "  Bash  youth,  you  rush  upon  your 
fate;  or,  to  speak  more  truthfully,  your  fate  intends  to 
rush  on  you.  Now  take  the  consequences." 

With  both  her  hands  extended  she  advances  on  him.  fell 
determination  in  her  eye.  Alas  for  his  coat  when  those  ten 
snowy  fingers  shall  have  marked  it  for  their  own ! 

"  Mercy !  "  cries  Luttrell,  falling  on  his  knees  at  her  feet. 
"Anything  but  that.  I  apologize,  I  retract;  I  will  do 
penance;  I  will  even  eat  it,  every  bit;  I  will " 

"  Will  you  go  away?  " 

"  No,"  heroically,  rising  to  his  full  height,  "  I  will  not. 
I  would  rather  be  white  from  head  to  heel  than  leave  this 
adorable  kitchen." 

There  is  a  slight  pause.  Mercy  and  vengeance  are  in 
the  balance,  and  Molly  holds  the  scales.  After  a  brief 
struggle  mercy  triumphs. 

"I  forgive  you,"  says  Molly,  withdrawing ;  "  but  as  pun- 
ishment you  really  must  help  me,  as  I  am  rather  late  this 
evening.  Here,  stone  these,"  pushing  toward  him  a 
plateful  of  raisins." 

"  Law,  miss,  I'll  do  'em,"  says  Jane,  who  feels  matters 
are  going  too  far.  To  have  a  strange  gentleman,  one  of 
the  "high-up"  gentry,  a  "reel  millingtary  swell,"  ston- 
ing raisins  in  her  kitchen  is  more  than  she  can  reconcile 
herself  to  in  silence ;  she  therefore  opens  the  floodgates  of 
speech.  "  He'll  soil  hisself,"  she  says,  in  a  deep,  re- 
proachful whisper,  fixing  an  imploring  eye  on  Molly. 

"I  hope  so,"  murmurs  that  delinquent,  cheerfully. 
"  He  heartily  deserves  it.  You  may  go  and  occupy  your- 
self elsewhere,  Jane;  Mr.  Luttrell  and  I  will  make  this 
pudding.  Now  go  on,  Mr.  Luttrell;  don't  be  shirking 
your  duty.  It  is  either  do  or  die." 

"  I  think  it  is  odds  on  the  dying,"  says  he. 

Silence  for  at  least  three  minutes, — in  this  case  a  long, 
long  time. 

"I  can't  find  anything  in  them,"  ventures  he,  at  last, 
in  a  slightly  dejected  tone;  "and  they're  so  horrid 
sticky."' 

"Nothing  in  them?  Nonsense!  you  don't  know  how  to 
go  about  it.  Look.  I'll  show  you.  Open  them  with 
your  first  finger  and  thumb — so;  and  now  do  you  so« 


£8  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

them?  "  triumphantly  producing  a  round  brown  article  on 
the  tip  of  her  linger. 

"  Where?  "  asks  Luttrell,  bending  forward. 

"  There,"  says  Molly,  bending  too.  Their  heads  are 
very  close  together.  The  discreet  Jane  has  retired  into  her 
pantry.  "  It  is  the  real  thing.  Can't  you  see  it?  " 

"  Scarcely.     It  is  very  small,  isn't  it?  " 

"Well,  it  is  small,"  Miss  Massereene  confesses,  with  re- 
luctance; "it  certainly  is  the  smallest  I  ever  saw. 
Still " 

By  this  time  they  are  looking,  not  at  the  seed  of  th-3 
raisin,  but  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  again  there  is  an  elo 
quent  pause. 

"May  I  examine  it  a  little  closer?"  Luttrell  asks,  as 
though  athirst  for  information,  possessing  himself  quietly 
of  the  hand,  raisin-stone,  flour,  and  all,  and  bringing  it 
suspiciously  near  to  his  lips.  "  Does  it — would  it — I  mean 
does  flour  come  off  things  easily?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  returns  Molly,  with  an  innocent  grav- 
ity that  puts  him  to  shame.  "  Off  some  things  it  washes 
readily  enough;  but — mind  you,  I  can't  say  for  certain, 
as  I  have  had  no  experience;  but  I  don't  think " 

"  Yes?  "  seeing  her  hesitate. 

"  Well,  I  don't  think,"  emphasizing  each  word  with  a 
most  solemn  nod,  "  it  would  come  off  your  moustache  in  a 
hurry." 

"I'll  risk  it,  anyhow,"  says  Luttrell,  stooping  suddenly 
to  impress  a  fervent  kiss  upon  the  little  powdered  fingers 
he  is  holding. 

' '  Oh  !  how  wrong,  how  extremely  wrong  of  you !  "  ex- 
claims Miss  Massereene,  as  successfully  shocked  as  though 
the  thought  that  he  might  be  tempted  to  such  a  deed  has 
never  occurred  to  her.  Yet,  true  to  her  nature,  she  makes 
no  faintest  pretense  at  withdrawing  from  him  her  hand 
until  a  full  minute  has  elapsed.  Then,  unable  longer  to 
restrain  herself,  she  bursts  into  a  merry  laugh, — a  laugh  all 
sweetest,  clearest  music. 

"  If  you  could  only  see  how  funny  you  look !  "  cries  she. 
"  You  are  fair  with  a  vengeance  now.  Ah !  do  go  and  see 
for  yourself."  Giving  him  a  gentle  push  toward  an  an- 
cient glass  that  hangs  disconsolately  near  the  clock,  and 
thereby  leaving  another  betraying  mark  upon  the  shoulder 
©f  his  coat. 

Luttrell,  having  duly  admired  iiiun**Ii  and  giv«a  it  as  kia 


MOLL  Y  RA  WN.  29 

opinion  that  though  flour  on  tne  arms  may  be  effective, 
flour  ou  the  face  is  not,  has  barely  time  to  wipe  hia  mous- 
tache free  of  it  when  Mrs.  Massereene  enters. 

"  You  here,"  exclaims  she,  staring  at  Tedcastle,  "  of  all 
places  in  the  world !  I  own  I  am  amazed.  Oh,  if  your 
brother  officers  could  only  see  you  now,  and  your  coat  all 
over  flour !  I  need  hardly  inquire  if  this  is  Molly's  doing. 
Poor  boy!  "  with  a  laugh.  "It  is  a  shame.  Molly,  you 
we  never  happy  unless  you  are  tormenting  some  one." 

"  But  I  always  make  it  up  to  them  afterward:  don't  I, 
&ow,  Letty?"  murmurs  Molly,  sweetly,  speaking  to  Le- 
titia,  but  directing  a  side-glance  at  Luttrell  from  undei 
her  long,  dark  lashes :  this  side-glance  is  almost  a  promise. 

"  Well,  so  you  have  come  at  last,  Letty.  And  how  did 
you  enjoy  your  'nice,  long,  happy  day  in  the  country,'  as 
the  children  say?  " 

"  Very  much,  indeed, — far  more  than  I  expected.  The 
Mitchells  were  there,  which  added  a  little  to  our  liveli- 
ness. " 

"  And  my  poor  old  mummy,  was  ne  there?  And  is  he 
etill  holding  together?  " 

"  Lord  Eossmere?  He  is  indeed,  and  was  asking  most 
tenderly  for  you.  I  never  saw  him  look  so  well." 

"  Oh !  it  grows  absurd,"  says  Molly,  in  disgust.  "  How 
much  longer  does  he  intend  keeping  up  the  farce?  He 
must  fall  to  pieces  soon." 

"  He  hasn't  a  notion  of  it,"  says  Letitia,  warming  to  her 
description;  "he  has  taken  a  new  lease  of  his  life.  He 
looked  only  too  well, — positively  ten  years  younger.  I 
think  myself  he  was  '  done  up. '  I  could  see  his  coat  was 
padded;  and  he  has  adorned  his  head  with  a  very  sleek 
brown  wig." 

"Jane,"  says  Molly,  weakly,  "be  so  good  as  to  stand 
close  behind  me.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  going  to  faint  di« 
rectly." 

"  Law,  miss !  "  says  Jane,  giving  way  to  her  usual  ex- 
pletive. She  is  a  clean  and  worthy  soul  where  pots  and 
pans  are  concerned,  but  apart  from  them  can  scarcely  be 
termed  eloquent. 

"You  are  busy,  Jane,"  says  Mr.  Luttrell,  obligingly, 
"  and  I  am  not.  (I  see  you  are  winding  up  that  long-suf- 
fering pudding.)  Let  me  take  a  little  trouble  off  your 
hands.  /  will  stand  close  behind  Miss  Massereene." 

"  He  had  quite  a  color,  too/'  goes  on  Letitia,  mysterv 


80  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

ously,  "  a  very  extraordinary  color.  Not  that  of  an  old 
man,  nor  yet  of  a  young  one,  and  I  am  utterly  certain  it 
was  paint.  It  was  a  vivid,  uncompromising  red;  so  red 
that  I  think  the  poor  old  thing's  valet  must  have  overdone 
his  work,  for  fun.  Wasn't  it  cruel?  " 

"  Are  you  ready,  Jane?"  murmurs  Molly,  with  increas- 
ing weakness. 

"Quite  ready,  miss,"  returns  Luttrell,  with  hopeful 
promptness. 

"I  asked  John  on  the  way  home  what  he  thought," 
goes  on  Letitia,  with  an  evident  interest  in  her  tale,  "  and 
he  quite  agrees  with  me  that  it  was  rouge,  or,  at  all 
events,  something  artificial." 

"One  more  word,  Letitia," — faintly, — "a  last  one. 
Has  he  had  that  sole  remaining  tooth  in  the  front  of  hi» 
mouth  made  steady?  " 

"No,"  cries  Mrs.  Massereene,  triumphantly,  "he  haa 
not.  Do  you  too  remember  that  awful  tooth  ?  It  is  liter- 
ally the  only  thing  left  undone,  and  I  can't  imagine  why. 
It  still  waggles  uncomfortably  when  he  talks,  and  his  uppei 
lip  has  the  same  old  trick  of  catching  on  it  and  refusing  to 
come  down  again  until  compelled.  Sir  John  was  there, 
and  took  me  in  to  luncheon ;  and  as  I  sat  just  opposite 
Lord  Rossmere  I  could  see  distinctly.  I  particularly 
noticed  that." 

"You  have  sa^ed  me,"  cries  Molly,  briskly.  "  Had 
your  answer  been  other  than  it  was,  I  would  not  have  hesi- 
tated for  a  moment :  I  would  have  gone  off  into  a  death- 
like  swoon.  Thank  you,  Jane," — with  a  backward  nod  at 
Luttrell,  whom  she  has  refused  to  recognize:  " I  need  not 
detain  you  any  longer." 

"  Mrs.  Massereene,  I  shall  never  forgive  you,"  says  Lut- 
trell. 

"And  is  this  the  way  you  entertain  your  gnests, 
Molly?"  asks  Letitia.  "  Have  you  spent  your  day  in  the 
kitchen?  " 

"The  society  of  the  'upper  ten'  is  not  good  for  yon, 
Letitia,"  says  Molly,  severely.  "There  is  a  faint  flavor 
of  would-be  sarcasm  about  you,  and  it  doesn't  suit  you  in 
the  least :  your  lips  have  not  got  the  correct  curve.  No, 
my  dear:  although  unnoticed  by  the  nobility  of  our  land, 
we,  too,  have  had  our  '  nice,  long,  happy  day  in  the  coun- 
try.' Haven't  we,  Mr.  Luttrell?  " 

"  Do  you  think  he  would  dare  say  *  No '  with  your  eyes 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  31 

upon  him?5*  says  Letitia,  laughing.  "  By  and  by  I  shall 
hear  the  truth.  Come  with  me" — to  Tedcastle — "and 
have  a  glass  of  sherry  before  your  dinner :  I  am  sure  you 
must  want  it,  after  all  you  have  gone  through." 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  Gather  the  roses  while  ye  may  ; 

Old  time  is  still  a-flying; 
And  the  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day 
To-morrow  will  be  dying." — HKERICK. 

IT  is  four  o'clock,  and  a  hush,  a  great  stillness,  born  of 
oppressive  heat,  is  over  all  the  laud.  Again  the  sun  is 
smiting  with  hot  wrath  the  unoffending  earth ;  the  flowers 
nod  drowsily  or  lie  half  dead  of  languor,  their  gay  leaves 
touching  the  ground. 

"  The  sky  was  blue  as  the  summer  sea, 

The  depths  were  cloudless  overhead ; 
The  air  was  calm  as  it  could  be ; 
There  was  no  sight  or  sound  of  dread," 

quotes  Luttrell,  dreamily,  as  he  strays  idly  along  the  garden 
path,  through  scented  shrubs  and  all  the  many-hued  chil- 
dren of  light  and  dew.  His  reverie  is  lengthened  yet  not 
diffuse.  One  little  word  explains  it  all.  It  seems  to  him 
that  word  is  everywhere:  the  birds  sing  it,  the  wind  whis- 
tles it  as  it  rushes  faintly  past,  the  innumerable  voices  of 
the  summer  cry  ceaselessly  for  "  Molly." 

"Mr.  Luttrell,  Mr.  Luttrell,"  cries  some  one,  "look 
up."  And  he  does  look  up. 

Above  him,  on  the  balcony,  stands  Molly,  "a  thing  of 
beauty,"  fairer  than  any  flower  that  grows  beneath.  Her 
eyes  like  twin  stars  are  gleaming,  deepening;  her  happy 
lips  are  parted ;  her  hair  drawn  loosely  back,  shines  like 
threads  of  living  gold.  Every  feature  is  awake  and  full  of 
life ;  every  movement  of  her  sweet  body,  clad  in  its  white 
gown,  proclaims  a  very  joyousness  of  living. 

With  hands  held  high  above  her  head,  filled  with  parti- 
colored roses,  she  stands  laughing  down  upon  him ;  while 
he  stares  back  at  her,  with  a  heart  filled  too  full  of  love  for 


38  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

happiness.  With  a  slight  momentary  closing  of  her  \idr- 
she  opens  both  her  hands  and  flings  the  scented  shower 
into  his  uplifted  face. 

"Take  your  punishment,"  she  whispers,  saucily,  bend- 
ing over  him,  "  and  learn  your  lesson.  Don't  look  at  me 
another  time." 

"  It  was  by  your  own  desire  I  did  so,"  exclaims  he,  be- 
wildered, shaking  the  crimson  and  yellow  and  white  leaves 
from  off  his  head  and  shoulders.  *'  How  am  I  to  under- 
stand you?  " 

"  How  do  I  know,  when  I  don't  even  understand  myself? 
But  when  I  called  out  to  you  '  Look  up, '  of  course  I  meant 
'  look  down.'  Don't  you  remember  the  old  game  with  the 
handkerchief? — when  I  say  '  Let  go,' '  hold  fast ;'  and  when 
I  say  '  Hold  fast,'  '  let  go?  '  You  must  recollect  it." 

"  I  have  a  dim  idea  of  something  idiotic,  like  what  you 
say.7' 

"It  is  not  idiotic,  but  it  suits  only  some  people;  it  suits 
me.  There  is  a  certain  perverseness  about  it,  a  determina- 
tion to  do  just  what  one  is  told  not  to  do,  that  affects  me 
most  agreeably.  Did  I" — glancing  at  the  rosy  shower  at 
his  feet — "  did  I  hurt  you  much?"  With  a  smile. 

There  is  a  little  plank  projecting  from  the  wood- work  of 
the  pillars  that  supports  the  balcony :  resting  his  foot  on 
this,  and  holding  on  by  the  railings  above,  Luttrell  draws 
himself  up  until  his  face  is  almost  on  a  level  with  hers, — 
almost,  but  not  quite :  she  can  still  overshadow  him. 

"  If  that  was  all  the  injury  I  had  received  at  your 
hands,  how  easy  it  would  be  to  forgive!  "  says  he,  in  a 
low  tone. 

"Poor  hands,"  says  Molly,  gazing  at  her  shapely 
fingers,  "  how  have  they  sinned?  Am  I  to  understand, 
then,  that  I  am  not  forgiven?" 

"Yes." 

"  You  are  unkind  to  me." 

"Oh,  Molly!" 

"  Dreadfully  unkind  to  me.  Can  you  deny  it?  Now, 
tell  me  what  this  crime  is  that  I  have  committed  and  you 
cannot  pardon." 

"  I  will  not."  says  the  young  man,  turning  a  little  pale,, 
while  the  smile  dies  out  of  his  eyes  and  from  round  his 
lips.  "I  dread  to  put  my  injuries  into  words.  Should 
they  anger  you,  you  might  with  one  look  seal  my  death- 
warrant." 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  33 

"Am  I  so  blood-thirsty?  How  badly  you  think  of 
me!  " 

"Do  I?"  Reading  with  the  wistful  sadness  of  uncer- 
•tainty  her  lovely  face.  "  You  know  better  than  that.  You 
know  too — do  you  not? — what  it  is  I  would  say, — if  I 
dared.  Oh,  Molly,  what  have  you  done  to  me,  what 
witchery  have  you  used,  that,  after  escaping  for  twenty- 
seven  long  years,  I  should  now  fall  so  hopelessly  in " 

"Hush!"  says  Molly,  quickly,  and,  letting  her  hand 
fall  lightly  on  his  forehead,  brings  it  slowly,  slowly,  over 
his  eyes  and  down  his  face,  until  at  length  it  rests  upon  his 
lips  rebukingly.  "  Not  another  word.  You  have  known 
me  but  a  few  days, — but  a  little  short  three  weeks, — and 
you  would " 

"Yes,  I  would,"  eagerly,  devouring  with  fond  kisses 
the  snow-flake  that  would  stay  his  words.  "  Three  weeks, 
— a  year,— ten  years, — what  does  it  matter?  I  think  the 
very  first  night  I  saw  you  here  in  this  garden  the  mischief 
was  done.  My  heart  left  me.  You  stole  the  very  best  of 
me;  and  will  you  give  nothing  in  exchange?  " 

"  I  will  not  listen,"  says  Molly,  covering  her  ears  with 
her  hands,  but  not  so  closely  that  she  must  be  deaf.  ' '  Do 
you  hear?  You  are  to  be  silent." 

"  Do  you  forbid  me  to  speak?  " 

"Yes;  I  am  in  a  hurry;  I  cannot  listen, — now,"  says 
.this  born  coquette,  unable  to  release  her  slave  so  soon. 

"  Some  other  time, — when  you  know  me  better, — you 
will  listen  then :  is  that  what  you  mean?  "  Still  detaining 
her  with  passionate  entreaty  both  in  tone  and  manner. 
"  Molly,  give  me  one  word  of  hope." 

"I  don't  know  what  I  mean,"  she  says,  effecting  her 
escape,  and  moving  back  to  the  security  of  the  drawing- 
room  window,  which  stands  open.  "  I  never  do  know. 
And  I  have  not  got  the  least  bit  of  memory  in  the  world. 
Do  you  know  I  came  out  here  to  tell  you  tea  was  to  be 
brought  out  for  us  under  the  trees  on  the  lawn ;  and  when 
I  saw  you  I  forgot  everything.  Is  that  a  hopeful  sign?" 
With  a  playful  smile. 

"I  will  try  to  think  so;  and — don't  go  yet,  Molly." 
Seeing  her  about  to  enter  the  drawing-room.  "  Surely,  if 
tea  is  to  be  on  the  lawn,  it  is  there  we  ought  to  go." 

"  I  am  half  afraid  of  you.  If  I  consent  to  bestow  upon 
you  a  little  more  of  my  society,  will  you  promise  not  to  talk 
in — in — that  way  again  to  me?  " 


34  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

"  But " 

"I  will  hare  no  'buts.'  Promise  what  I  ask,  or  I  will 
hide  myself  from  you  for  the  rest  of  the  day." 

"  I  swear,  then,"  says  he;  and,  so  protected,  Miss  Mas- 
sereene  ventures  down  the  balcony  steps  and  accompanies 
Aim  to  the  shaded  end  of  the  lawn. 

By  this  time  it  is  nearly  five  o'clock,  and  as  yet  oppress- 
ively wai'm.  The  evening  is  coming  with  a  determination 
to  rival  in  dull  heat  the  early  part  of  the  day.  The  sheep 
in  great  white  snowy  patches  lie  panting  in  the  distant  cor- 
ners of  the  adjoining  fields ;  the  cows,  tired  of  whisking 
their  foolish  tails  in  an  unsuccessful  war  with  the  insatia- 
ble flies,  are  all  huddled  together,  and  give  way  to  mourn- 
ful lows  that  reproach  the  tarrying  milkmaid. 

Above  in  the  branches  a  tiny  bird  essays  to  sing,  but 
stops  half  stifled,  and,  forgetting  the  tuneful  note,  con- 
tents itself  with  a  lazy  "  cluck-ciuck"  that  presently  de- 
generates still  further  into  a  dying  "  coo"  that  is  hardly 
musical,  because  so  full  of  sleep.  • 

Molly  has  seated  herself  upon  the  soft  young  grass,  be- 
neath the  shade  of  a  mighty  beech,  against  the  friendly 
trunk  of  which  she  leans  her  back.  Even  this  short  walk 
from  the  house  to  the  six  stately  beeches  that  are  the  pride 
and  glory  of  Brooklyn  has  told  upon  her.  Her  usually 
merry  eyes  have  subsided  into  a  gentle  languor ;  over  them 
the  white  lids  droop  heavily.  No  little  faintest  tinge  of 
color  adorns  her  pale  cheeks ;  upon  her  lap  her  hands  lie 
idle,  their -very  listlessness  betokening  the  want  of  energy 
they  feel. 

At  about  two  yards'  distance  from  her  reclines  her  guest, 
full  length,  his  fingers  interlaced  behind  his  head,  looking 
longer,  slighter  than  usual,  as  with  eyes  upturned  he  gazes 
in  silence  upon  the  far-off,  never-changing  blue  showing 
through  the  net- work  of  the  leaves  above  him. 

"  Are  you  quite  used  up?  "  asks  Molly,  in  the  slow,  in- 
different tone  that  belongs  to  heat,  as  the  crisp,  gay  voice 
belongs  to  cold.  "  I  never  heard  you  silent  for  so  long  be- 
fore, 
don' 


paniun.     "  Oh,  how  I  loathe  the  summer!  " 

"  You  are  not  so  far  gone  as  I  feared :  you  can  stiil  use 
bad  language.  Now,  tell  me  what  sweet  thought  has  held 
you  in  thrall  so  long." 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  35 

"  If  I  must  confess  it,  I  have  been  thinking  of  how  un- 
told a  luxury  at  this  moment  would  be  an  iced  bath." 

"  '  An  iced  bath  ' !  "  With  as  much  contempt  as  she  can 
summon.  "  How  prosaic!  And  I  quite  flattered  myself 
you  were  thinking  of  me."  She  says  this  as  calmly  as 
though  she  had  supposed  him  thinking  of  his  dinner. 

Tedcastle's  lips  part  in  a  faint  smile,  a  mere  glimmer,— 
a  laugh  is  beyond  him, — and  he  turns  his  head  just  so  fax 
round  as  will  permit  his  eyes  to  fall  full  upon  her  face, 

"  I  fancied  such  thoughts  on  my  part  tabooed,"  he  says. 
"  And  besides,  would  they  be  of  any  advantage  to  you?  " 

"  No  material  advantage,  but  they  would  have  been  only 
fair,  /was  thinking  of  you." 

"Were  you?  Really!"  With  such  overpowering  in- 
terest as  induces  him  to  raise  himself  on  his  elbow,  th« 
better  to  see  her.  "  You  were  thinking — that " 

"  Don't  excite  yourself.  I  was  wondering  whether, 
when  you  were  a  baby,  your  nose — in  proportion,  of  course 
— was  as  lengthy  and  solemn  as  it  is  now." 

"  Pshaw !  "  mutters  Mr.  Luttrell,  angrily,  and  goes  back 
to  his  original  position. 

"  If  it  was,"  pursues  Molly,  with  a  ruthless  and  amused 
laugh,  "  you  must  have  been  an  awfully  funny  baby  to  look 
at."  She  appears  to  find  infinite  amusement  in  this  idea 
for  a  full  minute,  after  which  follows  a  disgusted  silence 
that  might  have  lasted  until  dinner-hour  but  for  the  sound 
of  approaching  footsteps. 

Looking  up  simultaneously,  they  perceive  Letitia  coming 
toward  them,  with  Sarah  behind,  carrying  a  tray,  on  which 
are  cups,  and  small  round  cakes,  and  plates  of  strawberries. 

"I  have  brought  you  your  tea  at  last,"  cries  Letitia, 
looking  like  some  great  fair  goddess,  with  her  large  figure 
and  stately  walk  and  benign  expression,  as  she  bears  down 
upon  them.  She  is  still  a  long  way  off,  yet  her  voice 
comes  to  them  clear  and  distinct,  without  any  suspicion  of 
shouting.  She  is  smiling  benevolently,  and  has  a  delicious 
pink  color  in  her  cheeks. 

"  We  thought  you  had  forgotten- us,"  says  Molly,  spring- 
ing to  her  feet  with  a  sudden  return  of  animation.  "  But 
you  have  come  in  excellent  time,  as  we  were  on  the  very 
brink  of  a  quarrel  that  would  have  disgraced  the  Kilkenny 
cats.  And  what  have  you  brought  us?  Tea,  and  straw- 
berries, and  dear  little  hot  cakes!  Oh,  Letty,  how  I  love 
you ! " 


36  MOLLY  SAWN. 

"  So  do  I,"  says  Luttrell.  "  Mrs.  Massereene,  may  I  sit 
beside  you?  " 

"  For  protection?  "  asks  she,  with  a  laugh. 

In  the  meantime  Molly  has  arranged  the  tray  before  her- 
self, and  is  busily  engaged  placing  all  the  worst  strawber- 
ries and  the  smallest  cake  on  one  plate. 

"Before  you  go  any  further,"  says  Luttrell,  "  I  won't 
have  that  plate.  Nothing  shall  induce  me.  So  you  may 
spare  your  trouble." 

"  Then  you  may  go  without  any,  as  I  myself  intend  eat- 
ing all  the  others." 

"  Mrs.  Massereene,  you  are  my  only  friend.  I  appeal  to 
you ;  is  it  fair?  Just  look  at  all  she  is  keeping  for  herself. 
If  I  die  for  it,  I  will  get  my  rights,"  exclaims  Tedcastle. 
goaded  into  activity,  and  springing  from  his  recumbent 
position,  makes  straight  for  the  tray.  There  is  a  short  but 
decisive  battle ;  and  then,  victory  being  decided  in  favor  of 
Luttrell,  he  makes  a  successful  raid  upon  the  fruit,  and  re- 
tires covered  with  glory  and  a  good  deal  of  juice. 

"  Coward,  thief !  won't  I  pay  you  for  this?  "  cries  Molly, 
viciously. 

"  I  wouldn't  use  school-boy  slang  if  I  were  you,"  returns 
Luttrell,  with  provoking  coolness,  and  an  evident  irritat- 
ing appreciation  of  the  fruit. 

Fortunately  for  all  parties,  at  this  moment  John  appears 
upon  the  scene. 

"  It  «s  warm,"  says  he,  sinking  on  the  grass,  under  the 
weak  impression  that  he  is  imparting  information. 

"  I  think  there  is  thunder  in  the  air,"  says  Letitia,  with 
a  mischievous  glance  at  the  late  combatants,  at  which  they 
laugh  in  spite  of  themselves. 

"  Not  at  all,  my  dear;  you  are  romancing,"  says  igno- 
rant John.  "  Well,  Molly  Bawn,  where  is  my  tea?  Have 
you  kept  me  any  ?  " 

"  As  if  I  would  forget  you  !  Is  it  not  an  extraordinary 
thing,  Letty,  that  Sarah  cannot  be  induced  to  bring  us  a 
tea-pot?  Now,  I  want  more,  and  must  only  wait  her  pleas- 
ure." 

"  Remonstrate  with  her,"  says  John. 

"  I  am  tired  of  doing  so.  Only  yesterday  I  had  a  very 
lengthy  argument  with  her  on  the  subject,  to  the  effect 
that  as  it  was  I  who  was  having  the  tea,  and  not  she,  surely 
I  might  be  allowed  to  have  it  the  way  I  wished.  When  I 
had  exhausted,  my  eloquence,  ami  was  nearly  on  the  verge 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  37 

of  tears,  I  discovered  that  she  was  still  at  the  very  point 
from  which  we  started.  '  But  the  tea  is  far  more  gen- 
teeler,  Miss  Molly,  When  brought  up  without  the  tea-pot. 
It  spoils  the  look  of  the  tray.'^  I  said  '  Yes,  tho  want  of  it 
does/  with  much  indignation";  but  I  might  as  well  have 
kept  my  temper." 

"Much  better"  says  Luttrell,  placidly. 

"  I  do  hate  having  my  tea  poured  out  for  me,"  goes  on 
i Molly,  not  deigning  to  notice  him.  "I  am  convinced 
Sarah  lived  with  a  retired  tallow-chandler,  or  something 
equally  horrible,  before  she  came  to  us.  She  has  one  idol 
to  which  she  sacrifices  morning,  noon,  and  night,  and  I 
think  she  calls  it  '  style. ' ' 

"And  what  is  that?  "  interposes  Luttrell,  anxiously. 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I  think  it  has  something  to  do  with 
not  putting  the  tea-pot  on  the  tray,  for  instance,  and  taking 
the  pretty  fresh  covers  off  the  drawing-room  chairs  when 
any  one  is  coming,  to  convince  them  of  the  green  damask 
beneath.  And  once  when,  during  a  passing  fit  of  insanity, 
I  dressed  my  hair  into  a  pyramid,  she  told  me  I  looked 
*  stylish. '  It  took  me  some  time  to  recover  that  shock  to 
my  vanity. :s 

"I  like  'stylish*  people  myself,"  says  John.  "Lady 
Barton,  I  am  positive,  is  just  what  Sarah  means  by  that, 
and  I  admire  her  immensely, — within  bounds,  of  course, 
my  dear  Letitia." 

"  Dreadful,  vulgar  woman!  "  says  Molly,  with  a  frown. 
"  I'm  sure  I  wouldn't  name  Letty  in  the  same  day  with 
her." 

"  We  all  know  you  are  notoriously  jealous  of  her,"  says 
John.  "  Her  meridian  charms  eclipse  yours  of  the  dawn." 

"  How  poetical !  "  laughs  Molly.  "  But  the  thing  to  see 
is  Letitia  producing  the  children  when  her  ladyship  comes 
to  pay  a  visit.  She  always  reminds  me  of  the  Mother  of 
the  Gracchi.  Now,  confess  it,  Letty,  don't  you  think 
Lady  Barton's  diamonds  and  rubies  and  emeralds  grow  pale 
and  lustreless  beside  your  living  jewels?  " 

"Indeed  I  do,"  returns  Letitia,  with  the  readiest,  most 
unexpected  simplicity. 

"  Letitia,"  cries  Molly,  touched,  giving  her  a  little 
hug,  "  I  do  think  you  are  the  dearest,  sweetest,  truest  old 
goose  in  the  world." 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear!  "  says  Letitia,  with  a  slow  pleased 
blush  that  is  at  once  so  youthful  and  so  lovelv 


86  MOLL  V  BA  WN. 

:'0h!  why  won't  Sarah  come?"  says  Molly,  recurring 
suddenly  to  her  woes.  "  I  know,  even  if  I  went  on  my 
knees  to  Mr.  Luttrell,  he  would  not  so  far  trouble  himself 
as  fco  go  in  and  find  her ;  hut  I  think  she  might  remember 
my  weakness  for  tea." 

"  There  she  is !  "  exclaims  John. 

To  their  right  rises  a  hedge,  on  which  it  has  been  cus- 
tomary for  ages  to  dry  the  household  linen,  and  moving 
toward  it  appears  Sarah,  armed  with  a  basket  piled  high 
to  the  very  top. 

"  Sarah/'  calls  Molly,  "  Sarah— Sarah!  " 

Now,  Sarah,  though  an  undeniably  good  servant,  and  a 
cleanly  one,  striking  the  beholder  as  a  creature  born  to  un- 
limited caps  and  spotless  aprons,  is  undoubtedly  obtuse. 
She  presents  her  back  hair  and  heels — that  would  not  have 
disgraced  an  elephant — to  Miss  Massereene's  call,  and  goes 
on  calmly  with  her  occupation  of  shaking  out  and  hanging 
up  to  dry  the  garments  she  has  just  brought. 

"  Shall  I  go  and  call  her?  "  asks  Luttrell,  with  some  re- 
mains of  grace  and  an  air  of  intense  fatigue. 

"  Not  worth  your  while,"  says  John,  with  all  a  man's 
delicious  consideration  for  a  man;  "she  must  turn  in  a 
moment,  and  then  she  will  see  us." 

For  two  whole  minutes,  therefore,  they  gaze  in  rapt 
silence  upon  the  unconscious  Sarah.  Presently  Mr.  Mas- 
sereene  breaks  the  eloquent  stillness. 

"There  is  nothing,"  says  he,  mildly,  "that  so  clearly 
declares  the  sociability — the  ton  camaraderie,  so  to  speak 
— that  ought  to  exist  in  every  well-brought-up  family  as 
the  sight  of  washing  done  at  home.  There  is  such  a  happy 
mingling  and  yet  such  a  thorough  disregard  of  sex  about 
it.  It  is  'Hail,  fellow!  well  met! '  all  through.  If  you 
will  follow  Sarah's  movements  for  a  minute  longer  you 
will  better  understand  what  I  mean.  There !  now  she  is 
spreading  out  Molly's  pale-green  muslin,  ti  which  she 
looked  so  irresistible  last  week.  And  there  goes  Daisy's 
pinafore,  and  Bobby's  pantaloons ;  and  now  she  is  pausing 
to  remove  a  defunct  grasshopper  from  Renee's  bonnet ! 
What  a  charming  picture  it  all  makes,  so  full  of  life! 
There  go  Molly's  stock ' 

"  John,"  interrupts  Molly,  indignantly,  who  has  been 
frowning  heavily  at  him  for  some  time  without  the  smallest 
result. 

"  If  y©u  say  another  word/'  puts  in  Luttrell,  burying 


MOLL  Y  BA  Wff.  39- 

his  face  in  the  grass,  with  a  deep  groan,  "  if  you  go  one  de- 
gree  further,  I  shall  faint/' 

"And  now  comes  my  shirt,"  goes  on  John,  in  the  same 
even  tone,  totally  unabashed. 

"  My  dear  John!  "  exclaims  Letitia,  much  scandalized, 
speaking  in  a  very  superior  tone,  which  she  fondly  but  er- 
roneously believes  to  be  stern  and  commanding,  "  I  beg  you 
will  pursue  the  subject  no  further.  We  have  no  desire 
whatever  to  learn  any  particulars  about  your  shirts." 

"  And  why  not,  my  dear?  "  demands  Mr.  Massereene, 
his  manner  full  of  mild  but  firm  expostulation.  "  What 
theme  so  worthy  of  prolonged  discussion  as  a  clean  shirt? 
Think  of  the  horrors  that  encompass  all  the  'great  un- 
washed,' and  then  perhaps  you  will  feel  as  I  do.  In  my 
opinion  it  is  a  topic  on  which  volumes  might  be  written : 
if  I  had  time  I  would  write  them  myself.  And  if  you  will 
give  yourself  the  trouble  to  think,  my  dear  Letitia,  you 
will  doubtless  be  able  to  bring  to  mind  the  fact  that  once  a 
very  distinguished  and  reasonable  person  called  Hood, 
wrote  a  song  about  it.  Besides  which " 

"She  is  looking  now!"  cries  Molly,  triumphantly. 
"  Sarah— Sa— rah !" 

"The  'bells  they  go  ringing  for  Sarah/"  quotes  Mr. 
Luttrell,  irrelevantly.  But  Sarah  has  heard,  and  is  has^ 
tening  toward  them,  and  wrath  is  for  the  present  averted 
from  his  unlucky  head. 

Smiling,  panting,  rubicund,  comes  Sarah,  ready  for  any- 
thing. 

"Some  more  tea,  Sarah,"  says  Molly,  with  a  smile  that 
would  corrupt  an  archbishop.  Molly  is  a  person  adored 
by  servants.  "  That's  my  cup." 

"And  that's  mine,"  says  Tedcastle,  turning  his  upside 
down  on  his  saucer.  "  I  am  particular  about  getting  my 
own  cup,  Sarah,  and  hope  you  will  not  mistake  mine  for 
Miss  Massereene's,  Fill  it,  and  bring  it  back  to  me  just 
like  this." 

".  Yes,  sir,"  says  Sarah,  in  perfect  good  faith. 

"And,  Sarah — next  time  we  would  like  the  tea-pot,, " 
puts  in  Mr.  Massereene,  mildly. 


•iO  MOLLY  BAWtf. 


CHAPTEE  VI. 

"  Oh,  we  fell  out, — I  know  not  why, — 

And  kissed  again  with  tears." — TENNYSOT. 

THEY  are  now  drawing  toward  the  close  of  July.  To 
Luttrell  it  appears  as  though  the  moments  are  taking  to 
themselves  wings  to  fly  away ;  to  more  prosaic  mortals  they 
drag.  Ever  since  that  first  day  in  the  garden  when  he  be- 
trayed his  love  to  Molly,  he  had  been  silent  on  the  subject, 
fearful  lest  he  gain  a  more  decided  repulse. 

Yet  this  enforced  silence  is  to  him  a  lingering  torture ; 
and  as  a  school-boy  with  money  in  his  pocket  burns  till  he 
spend  it,  so  he,  with  his  heart  brimful  of  love,  is  in  tor- 
ment until  he  can  fling  its  rich  treasures  at  his  mistress's 
feet.  Only  a  very  agony  of  doubt  restrains  him. 

Not  that  this  doubt  contains  all  pain ;  there  is  blended 
with  it  a  deep  ecstasy  of  joy,  made  to  be  felt,  not  spoken ; 
and  all  the  grace  and  poetry  and  sweetness  of  a  first  great 
passion, — that  thing  that  in  all  the  chilling  after-yeara 
never  wholly  dies, — that  earliest,  purest  dew  that  falls  from 
the  awakening  heart. 

"  O  love!  young  love ! 
Let  saints  and  cynics  cavil  as  they  will, 
One  throb  of  yours  is  worth  whole  years  of  ftV 

So  thinks  Luttrell ;  so  think  I. 

To-day  Molly  has  deserted  him,  and  left  him  to  follow 
his  own  devices.  John  has  gone  into  the  next  town  on 
some  important  errand  connected  with  the  farm :  so  per- 
force our  warrior  shoulders  his  gun  and  sallies  forth  sav- 
agely, bent  on  slaying  aught  that  comes  in  his  way.  As 
two  crows,  a  dejected  rabbit,  and  an  intelligent  squirrel  are 
all  that  present  themselves  to  his  notice,  he  wearies  toward 
three  o'clock,  and  thinks  with  affection  of  home.  For  so 
far  has  his  air-castle  mounted  that,  were  Molly  to  inhabit  a 
hovel,  that  hovel  to  him  would  be  home. 

Crossing  a  stile  and  a  high  wall,  he  finds  himself  in  the 
middle  of  the  grounds  that  adj:iu  the  more  modest  Brook- 
lyn. The  shimmer  of  a  small  lake  makes  itself  seen 
tkrough  the  branciias  to  hi&  ri^uu,  aad  as  he  gains  its 


MOLL  Y  BA  WK.  ft 

bank  a  boat  shoots  forth  from  behind  the  willows,  and 
a  gay  voice  sings: 

"  There  was  a  little  man, 
And  he  had  a  little  gun, 

4nd  his  bullets  they  were  made  of  lead,  lead,  lead; 
He  went  to  a  brook, 
And  he  saw  a  little " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Luttrell,  please,  please  don't  shoot  me,"  criea 
Molly,  breaking  down  in  the  song  with  an  exaggerated 
show  of  feigned  terror. 

"Do  you  call  yourself  a 'duck'?"  demands  Luttrell, 
with  much  scorn.  "  Is  there  any  limit  to  a  woman's  con- 
ceit? Duck,  indeed!  say  rather " 

"  Swan?  Well,  yes,  I  will,  if  you  wish  it :  I  don't  mind," 
says  Molly,  amiably.  "  And  now  tell  me,  are  you  not  sur- 
prised to  see  me  here?" 

"  I  am,  indeed.  Are  you  ubiquitous?  I  thought  I  left 
you  safe  at  home." 

"  So  you  did.  But  I  never  counted  on  your  staying  so 
long  away.  I  was  tired  of  waiting  for  you.  I  thought  you 
would  never  come.  So  in  despair  I  came  out  here  by  my- 
self." 

"  So  you  absolutely  missed  me?  "  says  Luttrell,  quietly, 
although  his  heart  is  beating  rapidly.  Too  well  he  knows 
her  words  are  from  the  lips  alone. 

"  Oh,  didn't  I !  "  exclaims  she,  heartily.  "  You  should 
have  seen  me  standing  at  the  gate  peering  up  and  down  for 
you  and  bemoaning  my  fate,  like  that  silly  Mariana  in  the 
moated  grange.  Indeed,  if  I  had  been  photographed  then 
and  there  and  named  '  Forsaken,'  I'm  positive  I  woult? 
have  sold  well." 

"I  don't  doubt  it." 

"  Then  I  grew  enraged,  and  determined  to  trouble  nsif 

head  no  more  about  you ;  and  then It  was  lucky  I 

came  here,  wasn't  it?  " 

"  Very  lucky, — for  me.  But  you  never  told  me  you  had 
a  boat  on  the  lake." 

"  Because  I  hadn't, — at  least  not  for  the  last  two  months, 
— until  yesterday.  It  got  broken  in  the  spring,  and  they 
have  been  ever  since  mending  it.  They  are  so  slow  down 
here.  I  kept  the  news  of  its  return  from  you  a  secret  all 
yesterday,  meaning  to  bring  you  here  and  show  it  you  as 
a  surprise;  and  this  is  how  my  plan  has  ended." 


IS  WOLL  Y  SA  WN. 

"  But  are  you  allowed?  I  thought  you  did  not  know  th< 
owners  of  this  place." 

"Neither  do  we.  He  is  a  retired  butcher,  I  fancy  (he 
doesn't  look  anything  like  as  respectable  as  a  grocer),  with 
a  fine  disregard  for  the  Queen's  English.  We  called  there 
one  day,  Letitia  and  I  (nothing  would  induce  John  to  ac- 
company us),  but  Mrs.  Butcher  was  too  much  for  Letitia, 
— too  much  for  even  me,"  cries  Molly,  with  a  laugh,  "  and 
I'm  not  particular :  so  we  never  called  again.  They  don't 
bear  malice,  however,  and  rather  affect  our  having  our  boat 
here  than  otherwise.  Jump  in  and  row  me  for  a  little 
while." 

Over  the  water,  under  the  hanging  branches  they  glide 
to  the  sweet  music  of  the  wooing  wind,  and  scarcely  care 
to  speak,  so  perfect  is  the  motion  and  the  stillness. 

Luttrell,  with  his  hat  off  and  a  cigar  betweeen  his  lips, 
is  far  happier  than  he  himself  is  at  all  aware.  Being  oi 
necessity  opposite  her,  he  is  calmly  feasting  himself  upon 
the  sweet  scenery  of  Molly's  face,  or  else  letting  his  eyes 
wander  to  where  her  slender  fingers  drag  their  way  through 
the  cool  water,  leaving  small  bubbles  in  their  track. 

"  It  is  a  pity  the  country  is  so  stupid,  is  it  not?"  says 
Molly,  breaking  the  silence  at  length,  and  speaking  in  a 
regretful  tone.  "  Because  otherwise  there  is  no  place  like 
it." 

"  Some  country  places  are  not  at  all  stupid.  There  are 
generally  too  many  people  about.  I  think  Brooklyn's  prin- 
cipal charm  is  its  repose,  its  complete  separation  from  the 
world." 

"  Well,  for  my  own  part/'  seriously,  "I  think  I  would 
excuse  the  repose  and  the  separation  from  the  world,  by 
which,  I  suppose,  you  mean  society.  I  have  no  admiration 
for  cloisters  and  convents  myself ;  I  like  amusement,  ex- 
citement. If  I  could,  I  would  live  in  London  all  the  year- 
round,"  concludes  Molly,  with  growing  animation. 

"Oh,  horror!"  exclaims  Luttrell,  who,  seven  years  be- 
fore, thought  exactly  as  she  does  now,  and  who  occasionally 
thinks  so  still.  "Who  that  ever  lived  for  six  months 
among  all  its  grime  and  smoke  and  turmoil  but  would  pine 
for  this  calmer  life?  " 

"  I  lived  there  for  more  than  six  months,"  says  Molly, 
"  and  I  didn't  pine  for  anything.  I  thought  it  charming. 
It  is  all  very  well  for  you  " — dejectedly — "  who  are  tired  of 
gayety,  to  go  into  raptures  over  calmness  and  tranquillity, 


MOLL  Y  SA  WN.  43 

and  that ;  but  if  you  lived  in  Brooklyn  from  summer  until 
winter  and  from  winter  back  again  to  summer,  and  if  you 
could  count  your  balls  on  one  hand," — holding  up  five  wet 
open  fingers, — "you  would  think  just  as  I  do,  and  long 
for  change." 

"  I  never  knew  you  had  been  to  London." 

"Yes:  when  I  was  sixteen  I  spent  a  whole  year  there, 
with  a  cousin  of  my  father's,  who  went  to  Canada  with  her 
husband's  regiment  afterward.  But  I  didn't  go  out  much, 
she  thought  me  too  young,  though  I  was  quite  as  tall  as  I 
am  now.  She  heard  me  sing  once,  and  insisted  on  carry- 
ing me  up  with  her  to  get  me  lessons  from  Marigny.  He 
took  great  pains  with  me :  that  is  why  I  sing  so  well,"  says 
Molly,  modestly. 

"  I  confess  I  often  wondered  where  your  exquisite  voice 
received  its  cultivation,  its  finish.  Now  I  know.  You 
were  fortunate  in  securing  Marigny.  I  have  known  him 
refuse  dozens  through  want  of  time ;  or  so  he  said.  More 
probably  he  would  not  trouble  himself  to  teach  where  there 
was  no  certainty  of  success.  Well,  and  so  you  dislike  the 
country?" 

"  No,  no.  Not  so  much  that.  What  I  dislike  is  having 
no  one  to  speak  to.  When  John  is  away  and  Letty  on  the 
tread-mill — that  is,  in  the  nursery — I  am  rather  thrown  on 
my  own  resources ;  and  they  are  not  much.  Your  coming 
was  the  greatest  blessing  that  ever  befell  me.  When  I  act- 
ually beheld  you  in  your  own  proper  person  on  the  garden 
path  that  night,  I  could  have  hugged  you  in  the  exuber- 
ance of  my  joy." 

' '  Then  why  on  earth  didn't  you  ?  "  says  Luttrell,  re- 
proachfully, as  though  he  had  been  done  out  of  something., 

' '  A  lingering  sense  of  maiden  modesty  and  a  faint  idea 
that  perhaps  you  might  not  like  it  alone  restrained  me. 
But  for  that  I  must  have  given  way  to  my  feelings.  Just 
think,  if  I  had,"  says  Molly,  breaking  into  a  merry  laugh, 
"  what  a  horrible  fright  I  would  have  given  you !  " 

"  Not  a  horrible  one,  at  all  events.  Molly,"  bending  to 
examine  some  imaginary  thing  in  the  side  of  the  boat, 
"  have  you  never — -had  a — lover?  " 

"  A  lover?  Oh,  yes,  I  have  had  any  amount  of  them," 
says  Molly,  with  an  alacrity  that  makes  his  heart  sink.  "  I 
don't  believe  I  could  count  my  adorers :  it  quite  puzzles  me 
to  know  where  to  begin.  There  were  the  curates, — oar 
rector  is  not  sweet-tempered,  so  we  have  a  fresh  one  every 


44'  MOLLY  BAWN. 

year, — and  they  never  fail  me.  Three  months  after  they 
come,  as  regular  as  clock-work,  they  aek  me  to  be  their 
wife.  Now,  I  appeal  to  you," — clasping  her  hands  and 
wrinkling  up  all  her  pretty  forehead, — "do  I  look  like  a 
curate's  wife?" 

"  You  do  not,"  replies  Luttrell,  emphatically,  regarding 
with  interest  the  debonnaire,  spirituelle  face  before  him : 
"no,  you  most  certainly  do  not." 

"Well,  I  thought  not  myself;  yet  each  of  those  deluded 
young  men  saw  something  angelic  about  me,  and  would 
insist  on  asking  me  to  share  his  lot.  They  kept  them- 
selves sternly  blind  to  the  fact  that  I  detest  with  equal 
vigor  broth  and  old  women." 

"  Intolerable  presumption !  "  says  Luttrell,  parenthetic- 
ally. 

"Was  it?  I  don't  think  I  iooked  at  it  in  that  light.  They 
were  all  very  estimable  men,  and  Mr.  Eochfort  was  posi- 
tively handsome.  You,  you  may  well  stare,  but  some  cu- 
rates, you  know,  are  good-looking,  and  he  was  decidedly 
High  Church.  In  fact,  he  wasn't  half  so  bad  as  the  gen- 
erality of  them,"  says  Molly,  relentingly.  "  Only — it  may 
be  wrong,  but  the  truth  is  I  hate  curates.  I  think  noth- 
ing of  them.  They  are  a  mixture  of  tea  and  small  jokes, 
and  are  ever  at  a  stand-still.  They  are  always  in  the  act  of 
budding, — they  never  bloom ;  and  then  they  are  so  afraid 
of  the  bishop." 

"  I  thank  my  stars  I'm  not  a  curate,"  says  Luttreli,  de- 
voutly. 

"However," — regretfully, — "they  were  something:  a 
proposal  is  always  an  excitement.  But  the  present  man  is 
married ;  so  that  makes  it  impossible  for  this  present  year. 
There  was  positively  nothing  to  which  to  look  forward. 
So  you  may  fancy  with  what  rapture  I  hailed  your  com 
ing." 

'  You  are  very  good,"  says  Luttrell,  in  an  uncertain 
tone,  not  being  quite  sure  whether  he  is  intensely  amused 
or  outrageously  angry,  or  both.  "Had  you — any  other 
lovers?" 

"  Yes.  There  was  the  last  doctor.  He  poisoned  a  poor 
man  afterward  by  mistake,  and  had  to  go  away." 

"After  what?" 

"  After  I  declined  to  assist  him  in  the  surgery,"  says 
Molly,  demurely.  "  It  was  a  dreadful  thing, — the  poison- 
ing, I  mean, — and  caused  a  great  deal  of  scandal.  I  don't 


MOLLY  SAWN.  45 

believe  it  was  anybody's  fault,  but  I  certainly  did  pity  the 
man  he  killed.  And — it  might  have  been  me,  you  know ; 
think  of  that !  He  was  very  much  attached  to  rne ;  and  so 
was  the  Lefroys'  eldest  son,  and  James  Warder,  and  the 
organist,  to  say  nothing  of  the  baker's  boy,  who,  I  am  con- 
vinced, would  cut  his  throat  to  oblige  me  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, if  I  asked  him." 

j  "Well,  don't  ask  him,"  says  Luttrell,  imploringly. 
'"  He  might  do  it  on  the  door-step,  and  then  think  of  the 
fiorrid  mess !  Promise  me  you  won't  even  hint  at  it  until 
after  I  am  gone." 

"  I  promise,"  says  Molly,  laughing. 

Onward  glides  the  boat;  the  oars  rise  and  fall  with  a 
tuneful  splash.  Miss  Massereene,  throwing  her  hat  with 
reckless  extravagance  into  the  bottom  of  the  punt,  bares 
her  white  arm  to  the  elbow  and  essays  to  catch  the  grasses 
as  she  sweeps  by  them. 

"  Look  at  those  lilies,"  she  says,  eagerly;  "how  exqui- 
site, in  their  broad  green  frames !  Water-sprites !  how  they 
elude  one !  "  as  she  makes  a  vigorous  but  unsuccessful  grab 
at  some  on  her  right  hand. 

"  Very  beautiful,"  says  Luttrell,  dreamily,  with  his  eyes 
on  Molly,  not  on  the  lilies. 

"  I  want  some,"  says  Molly,  revengefully;  "  I  always  do 
want  what  don't  want  me,  and  vice  versa.  Oh!  look  at 
those  beauties  near  you.  Catch  them." 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  ;  they  are  too  far  off." 

"  Not  if  you  stoop  very  much  for  them.  I  think  if  you 
were  to  bend  over  a  good  deal  you  might  do  it." 

"I  might;  I  might  do  something  else,  too,"  says  Lut- 
trell, calmly,  seeing  it  would  be  as  easy  for  him  to  grasp 
the  lilies  in  question  as  last  night's  moon:  "  I  might  fall 
in." 

"Oh,  never  mind  that,"  responds  Molly,  with  charming 
though  premeditated  unconcern,  a  little  wicked  desire  to 
tease  getting  the  better  of  her  amiability. 

Luttrell,  hardly  sure  whether  she  jests  or  is  in  sober 
earnest,  opens  his  large  eyes  to  their  fullest,  the  better  to 
judge,  but,  seeing  no  signs  of  merriment  in  his  companion, 
gives  way  to  his  feelings  a  little. 

"  Well,  you  are  cool,"  he  says,  slowly. 

"I  am  not,  indeed,"  replies  innocent  Molly.  "How 
I  wish  I  were  'cool,'  on  such  a  day  as  this!  Are 
you?" 


46  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

"  "No,"  shortly.  "  Perhaps  that  is  the  reason  yo&  recom« 
mended  me  a  plunge;  or  is  it  for  your  amusement? " 

"  You  are  afraid/"  asserts  Molly,  with  a  little  mischiev. 
')us,  scornful  laugh,  not  to  be  endured  for  a  moment. 

"Afraid!"  angrily.  "Nonsense!  I  don't  care  about 
wetting  my  clothes,  certainly,  and  I  don't  want  to  put  out 
my  cigar;  but" — throwing  away  the  choice  Havana  in 
question — "you  shall  have  your  lilies,  of  course,  if  you 
nave  set  your  heart  on  them." 

Here,  standing  up,  he  strips  off  his  coat  with  an  air  that 
means  business. 

"  I  don't  want  them  now,"  says  Molly,  in  a  degree  fright- 
ened, "  at  least  not  those.  See,  there  are  others  close  be- 
hind you.  But  I  will  pluck  them  myself,  thank  you :  I 
hate  giving  trouble.  No,  don't  put  your  hands  near  them. 
I  won't  have  them  if  you  do." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  you  are  cross,  and  I  detest  cross  people." 

"  Because  I  didn't  throw  myself  into  the  water  head  fore- 
most to  please  you?  "  with  impatient  wrath.  "  They  used 
to  call  that  chivalry  long  ago.  I  call  it  folly.  You  should 
be  reasonable." 

"  Oh,  don't  lose  your  temper  about  it,"  says  Molly. 

Now,  to  have  a  person  implore  you  at  any  time  "  not  to 
lose  your  temper  "  is  simply  abominable ;  but  to  be  so  im- 
plored when  you  have  lost  it  is  about  the  most  aggravating 
thing  that  can  occur  to  any  one.  So  Luttrell  finds  it. 

"I  never  lose  my  temper  about  trifles,"  he  says,  loftily. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  what  you  call  it,  but  when  one  puts 
on  a  frown,  and  drags  down  the  corners  of  one's  mouth, 
and  looks  as  if  one  was  going  to  devour  some  one,  arid 
makes  one's  self  generally  disagreeable,  /  know  what  /  call 
it,"  says  Molly,  viciously. 

"Would  you  like  to  return  home?"  asks  Mr.  Luttrell, 
with  prompt  solicitude.  "You  are  tired,  I  think." 

"  'Tired '?  Not  in  the  least,  thank  you.  I  should  like 
to  stay  out  here  for  the  next  two  hours,  if — 

"Yes?" 

"  If  you  think  you  could  find  amusement  far  yourself — 
elsewhere ! " 

"  I'll  try,"  says  Tedcastle,  quietly  taking  up  the  oars  and 
proceeding  to  row  with  much  appearance  of  haste  toward 
the  landing-place. 

By  the  time  they  reach  it,  Miss  Massereene'i  bad  temper 


MOLLY  BAVTN.  47 

—not  "being  at  any  time  a  lengthened  affair — has  cooled 
considerably,  though  still  a  very  handsome  allowance  re- 
mains. As  he  steps  ashore,  with  the  evident  intention  of  not 
addressing  her  again,  she  feels  it  incumbent  on  her  to  speak 
just  a  word  or  so,  if  only  to  convince  him  that  his  ill- 
humor  is  the  worst  of  the  two. 

"  Are  you  going  home?  "  asks  she,  with  cold  politeness. 

"  No/' — his  eyebrows  are  raised,  and  he  wears  an  expres- 
sion half  nonchalant,  wholly  bored, — "I  am  going  to 
Grantharn." 

Now,  Grantham  is  nine  miles  distant.  He  must  be  very 
angry  if  he  has  decided  on  going  to  Grantham.  It  will 
take  him  a  long,  long  time  to  get  there,  and  a  long,  long 
time  to  get  back ;  and  in  the  meantime  what  is  to  become 
of  her? 

' '  That  is  a  long  way,  is^it  not  ?  "  she  says,  her  manner  a 
degree  more  frigid,  lest  he  mistake  the  meaning  of  her 
words. 

"  The  longer  the  better,"  ungraciously. 

"  And  on  so  hot  a  day !  " 

"  There  are  worse  things  than  heat."  Getting  himself 
into  his  coat  in  such  a  violent  fashion  as  would  make  his 
tailor  shed  bitter  tears  over  the  cruel  straining  of  that  gar- 
ment. 

"You  wili  be  glad  to  get  away  from "  hesitates 

Molly,  who  has  also  stepped  ashore,  speaking  in  a  tone  that 
would  freeze  a  salamander. 

"  Very  glad."     With  much  unnecessary  emphasis. 

"  Go  then,"  cries  she,  with  sudden  passion,  throwing 
down  the  oar  she  still  holds  with  a  decided  bang,  "and  I 
hope  you  will  never  come  back.  There !  " 

And — will  you  believe  it? — even  after  this  there  is  no 
deluge. 

So  she  goes  to  the  right,  and  he  goes  to  the  left  nu 
when  too  late  repent  their  haste.  But  pride  is  ever  at 
hand  to  tread  down  tenderness,  and  obstinacy  is  always  at 
the  heels  of  pride ;  and  out  of  this  "  trivial  cause  "  see  what 
a  "pretty  quarrel"  has  been  sprung. 


"  The  long  and  weary  day  "  at  length  has  "  passed  away/' 
The  dinner  has  come  to  an  unsuccessful  end,  leaving  both 
Luttrell  and  his  divinity  still  at  daggers  drawn.  There 


48  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

are  no  signs  of  relenting  about  Molly,  no  symptoms  of 
weakness  about  Tedcastle :  the  war  is  civil  but  energetic. 

They  glower  at  each  other  through  each  course,,  and  are 
positively  devoted  in  their  attentions  to  John  and  Letitia. 
Indeed,  they  seem  bent  on  bestowing  all  their  conversa- 
tional outbreaks  on  these  two  worthies,  to  their  unmiti- 
gated astonishment.  As  a  rule,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Massereene 
have  been  accustomed  to  occupy  the  background ;  to-night 
they  are  brought  to  the  front  with  a  vehemence  that  takes 
away  their  breath,  and  is,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  embarrass- 
ing. 

Letitia, — dear  soul, — who,  though  the  most  charming  of 
women,  could  hardly  be  thought  to  endanger  the  Thames, 
understands  nothing;  John,  on  the  contrary,  comprehends 
fully,  and  takes  a  low  but  exquisite  delight  in  compelling 
the  antagonists  to  be  attentive  to  each  other. 

For  instance : 

' '  Luttrell,  my  dear  fellow,  what  is  the  matter  with  you 
this  evening?  How  remiss  you  are!  Why  don't  you  break 
feome  walnuts  for  Molly?  I  would  but  I  don't  wish  Letitia 
to  feel  slighted/' 

"  No,  thank  you,  John," — with  a  touch  of  asperity  from 
Molly, — "  I  don't  care  for  walnuts." 

"  Oh,  Molly  Bawn !  what  a  tarididdle !  Only  last  night 
I  quite  shuddered  at  the  amount  of  shells  you  left  upon 
your  plate.  '  How  can  that  wretched  child  play  such 
pranks  with  her  digestion?'  thought  I,  and  indeed  felt 
thankful  it  had  not  occurred  to  you  to  swallow  the  shells 
also." 

"  Shall  I  break  you  some,  Miss  Massereene?  "  asks  Lut- 
trell, very  coldly. 

"No,  thank  you,"  ungraciously. 

"  Luttrell,  did  you  see  that  apple-tree  in  the  orchard?  I 
never  beheld  such  a  show  of  fruit  in  my  life.  The  branches 
will  hardly  bear  the  weight  when  it  comes  to  perfection. 
It  is  very  worthy  of  admiration.  Molly  will  show  it  to  you 
to-morrow:  won't  you,  Molly?" 

Luttrell,  hastily:  "I  will  go  round  there  myself  after 
breakfast  and  have  a  look  at  it." 

John :  "  You  will  never  find  it  by  yourself.  Molly  will 
take  you;  eh,  Molly?" 

Molly,  cruelly:  "I  fear  I  shall  be  busy  all  the  morning-, 
and  in  the  afternoon  I  intend  going  with  Letitia  to  spend 
the  day  with  the  Lay  tons."' 


MOLL  Y  BA  W-N.  4S 

Letitia,  agreeably  surprised:  "Oh,  will  you,  dear? 
*That  is  very  good  of  you.  I  thought  this  morning  you 
said  nothing  would  induce  you  to  come  with  me.  1  shall 
be  so  glad  to  have  you ;  they  are  so  intensely  dull  and  diffi- 
cult." 

Molly,  still  more  cruelly:  "  Well,  I  have  been  thinking 
it  over,  and  it  seems,  do  you  know,  rather  rude  my  not 
going.  Besides,  I  hear  their  brother  Maxwell  (a  few  more 
strawberries,  if  you  please,  John)  is  home  from  India,  and 
— he  used  to  be  so  good-looking." 

John,  with  much  unction :  "  Oh,  has  he  come  at  last !  I 
am  glad  to  hear  it.  (Luttrell,  give  Molly  some  strawber- 
ries.) You  underrate  him,  I  think:  he  was  downright 
handsome.  When  Molly  Bawn  was  in  short  petticoats  he 
used  to  adore  her.  I  suppose  it  would  be  presumptuous  to 
pretend  to  measure  the  admiration  he  will  undoubtedly 
feel  for  her  now.  I  have  a  presentiment  that  fortune  is 
going  to  favor  you  in  the  end,  Molly.  He  must  inherit  a 
considerable  property." 

"  Kich  and  handsome,"  says  Luttrell,  with  exemplary 
composure  and  a  growing  conviction  that  he  will  soon  hate 
with  an  undying  hatred  his  whilom  friend  John  Masse- 
reene.  "  He  must  be  a  favorite  of  the  gods:  let  us  hope 
he  will  not  die  young." 

"He  can't,"  says  Letitia,  comfortably:  "he  must  be 
forty  if  he  is  a  day." 

"  And  a  good,  sensible  age,  too,"  remarks  John ;  where- 
upon Molly,  who  is  too  much  akin  to  him  in  spirit  not  to 
fully  understand  his  manoeuvering,  laughs  outright. 

Then  Letitia  rises,  and  the  two  women  move  toward  the 
door;  and  Molly,  coming  last,  pauses  a  moment  on  the 
threshold,  while  Luttrell  holds  the  door  open  for  her.  His 
heart  beats  high.  Is  she  going  to  speak  to  him,  to  throw 
him  even  one  poor  word,  to  gladden  him  with  a  smile, 
however  frozen? 

Alas !  no.  Miss  Massereene,  with  a  little  curve  of  her 
neck,  glances  back  expressively  to  where  an  unkind  nail 
has  caught  the  tail  of  her  long  soft  gown.  That  miserable 
nail — not  he — has  caused  her  delay.  Stooping,  he  extri- 
cates the  dress.  She  bows  coldly,  without  raising  her  eyes 
to  his.  A  moment  later  she  is  free ;  still  another  moment, 
and  she  is  gone;  and  Luttrell,  with  a  suppressed  but 
naughty  word  upon  his  lips,  returns  to  his  despondency 
und  John ;  while  Molly,  who,  though  she  has  never 


60  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

looked  at  him,  has  read  correctly  his  fond  hope  and  final 
disappointment,  allows  a  covert  smile  of  pleased  malevo- 
lence to  cross  her  face  as  she  walks  into  the  drawing-room. 

Mr.  Massereene  is  holding  a  long  and  very  one-sided 
argument  on  -the  subject  of  the  barbarous  Mussulman.  As 
Luttiell  evinces  no  faintest  desire  to  disagree  with  him  iii 
his  opinions,  the  subject  wears  itself  out  in  due  course  of 
time;  and  John,  winding  up  with  an  amiable  wish  that 
every  Turk  that  ever  has  seen  the  light  or  is  likely  to  see 
the  light  may  be  blown  into  fine  dust,  finishes  his  claret 
and  rises,  with  a  yawn. 

"  I  must  leave  you  for  awhile,"  he  says :  "  so  get  out  your 
cigars,  and  don't  wait  for  me.  I'll  join  you  later.  I  have 
had  the  writing  of  a  letter  on  my  conscience  for  a  week, 
and  I  must  write  it  now  or  never.  I  really  do  believe  I 
have  grasped  my  own  meaning  at  last.  Did  you  notice  my 
unusual  taciturnity  between  the  fish  and  the  joint?  " 

"  I  can't  say  I  did.  I  imagined  you  talking  the  entire 
time." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  of  what  were  you  thinking.  I  sincerely 
trust  you  are  not  going  to  be  ill ;  but  altogether  your  whole 

manner  this  evening Well,  just  at  that  moment  a 

Budden  inspiration  seized  me,  and  then  and  there  my  letter 
rose  up  before  me,  couched  in  such  eloquent  language  as 
astonished  even  myself.  If  I  don't  write  it  down  at  once 
I  am  a  lost  man." 

"  But  now  you  have  composed  it  to  your  satisfaction, 
why  not  leave  the  writing  of  it  until  to-morrow?"  expos- 
tulates Luttrell,  trying  to  look  hearty,  as  he  expresses  a 
hypocritical  desire  for  his  society. 

"I  always  remark,"  says  John,  "that  sleeping  on  those 
treacherous  flights  of  fancy  has  the  effect  of  taking  the 
gilt  off  them.  When  I  rise  in  the  morning  they  are  hardly 
up  to  the  mark,  and  appear  by  no  means  so  brilliant  as 
they  did  over-night.  Something  within  warns  me  if  I 
don't  do  it  now  I  won't  do  it  at  all.  There  is  more  claret 
on  the  sideboard, — or  brandy,  if  you  prefer  ;t."  says  Mr. 
Massereene,  tenderly. 

"  Thanks, — I  want  nothing  more,"  replies  Luttrell, 
whose  spirits  are  at  zero.  As  Massereene  leaves  him,  he 
saunters  toward  the  open  window  and  gazes  on  the  sleeping 
garden.  Outside,  the  heavens  are  alive  with  stars  that 
light  the  world  in  a  cold,  sweet  way,  although  as  yet  the 
moon  has  not  risen.  All  is 


ITOLL  V  EA  Wtf.  51 

"Clear,  and  bright,  and  deep; 
Soft  as  love,  and  calm  as  death; 
Sweet  as  a  summer  night  without  a  breath." 

Lighting  a  cigar  (by  the  bye,  can  any  one  tell  me  at  what 
stage  of  suffering  it  is  a  man  abandons  this  unfailing  friend 
as  being  powerless  to  soothe?),  he  walks  down  the  balcony 
steps,  and,  still  grim  and  unhappy,  makes  up  his  mind  to 
a  solitary  promenade. 

Perhaps  he  himself  is  scarcely  conscious  of  the  direction 
he  takes,  but  his  footsteps  guide  him  straight  over  the  lawn 
and  down  to  the  very  end  of  it,  where  a  broad  stream  runs 
babbling  in  one  corner.  It  is  a  veritable  love-retreat, 
hedged  in  by  larches  and  low-lying  evergreens,  BO  as  to  be 
completely  concealed  from  view,  and  a  favorite  haunt  of 
Molly's, — indeed,  such  a  favorite  that  now  as  he  enters  it 
he  finds  himself  face  to  face  with  her. 

An  impromptu  tableau  follows.  For  a  full  minute 
they  regard  each  other  unwillingly,  too  surprised  for 
disdain,  and  then,  with  a  laudable  desire  to  show  how 
unworthy  of  consideration  either  deems  the  other,  they 
turn  slowly  away  until  a  shoulder  and  half  a  face  alone 
are  visible. 

Now,  Luttrell  has  the  best  of  it,  because  he  is  the  happy 
possessor  of  the  cigar :  this  gives  him  something  to  do,  and 
he  smokes  on  persistently,  not  to  say  viciously.  Miss 
Massereene,  being  without  occupation  beyond  what  one's 
thumbs  may  afford,  is  conscious  of  being  at  a  disadvan- 
tage, and  wishes  she  had  earlier  in  life  cultivated  a  passion 
for  tobacco. 

Meanwhile,  the  noisy  brook  flows  on  merrily,  chattering 
as  it  goes,  and  reflecting  the  twinkling  stars,  with  their 
more  sedate  brethren,  the  planets.  Deep  down  in  the  very 
heart  of  the  water  they  lie,  quivering,  changing,  gleaming, 
while  the  stream  whispers  their  lullaby  and  dashes  its  cool 
soft  sides  against  the  banks.  A  solitary  bird  drops  down 
to  crave  a  drink,  terrifying  the  other  inhabitants  of  the 
rushes  by  the  trembling  of  its  wings ;  a  frog  creeps  in  with 
a  dull  spiash ;  to  all  the  stream  makes  kind  response ;  while 
on  its  bosom 

"  Broad  water-lilies  lay  tremulously, 
And  starry  river-buds  glimmered  by : 
And  round  them  the  soft  stream  did  glide  and  dance, 
With  a  motion  of  sweet  sound  and  radiance," 


08  MOLL  Y  BA  Wff. 

A  little  way  above,  a  miniature  cataract  acids  ifcs  tiny 
;oar  to  the  many  '' breathings  of  the  night;"  at  Mollr'^ 
feet  lie  great  bunches  of  blue  forget-me-nots. 

Stooping,  she  gathers  a  handful  to  fasten  at  her  breast ; 
a  few  sprays  still  remain  in  her  hands  idle ;  she  has  turned 
so  that  her  full  face  is  to  her  companion :  he  has  never 
stirred. 

He  is  still  puffing  away  in  a  somewhat  indignant  fashion 
at  the  unoffending  cigar,  looking  taller,  more  unbending 
in  his  evening  clothes,  helped  by  the  dignity  of  his  wrongs. 
Miss  Massereene,  having  indulged  in  a  long  examination  of 
his  would-be  stern  profile,  decides  on  the  spot  that  if  there 
is  one  thing  on  earth  toward  which  she  bears  a  rancorous 
hatred  it  is  an  ill-tempered  man.  What  does  he  mean  by 
standing  there  without  speaking  to  her?  She  makes  an 
undying  vow  that,  were  he  so  to  stand  forever,  she  would 
not  open  her  lips  to  him ;  and  exactly  sixty  seconds  after 
making  that  terrible  vow  she  says, — oh,  so  sweetly ! — "  Mr. 
Luttrell ! " 

He  instantly  pitches  the  obnoxious  cigar  into  the  water, 
where  it  dies  away  with  an  angry  fizz,  and  turns  to  her. 

She  is  standing  a  few  yards  distant  from  him,  with  her 
head  a  little  bent  and  the  bunch  of  forget-me-nots  in  one 
hand,  moving  them  slowly,  slowly  across  her  lips.  There 
is  penitence,  coquetry,  mischief,  a  thousand  graces  in  her 
attitude. 

Now,  feeling  his  eyes  upon  her,  she  moves  the  flowers 
about  three  inches  from  her  mouth,  and,  regarding  them 
lovingly,  says,  "Are  not  they  pretty!"  as  though  her 
whole  soul  is  wrapt  in  contemplation  of  their  beauty,  and 
as  though  no  other  deeper  thought  has  led  her  to  address 
him. 

"  Very.  They  are  like  your  eyes/'  replies  he,  gravely, 
and  with  some  hesitation,  as  if  the  words  came  reluctantl}'. 

This  is  a  concession,  and  so  she  feels  it.  A  compliment 
to  a  true  woman  comes  never  amiss ;  and  the  knowledge 
that  it  has  been  wrung  from  him  against  his  will,  being 
but  a  tribute  to  its  truth,  adds  yet  another  charm.  With- 
out appearing  conscious  of  the  fact,  she  moves  a  few  steps 
nearer  to  him,  always  with  her  eyes  bent  upon  the  flowers, 
the  grass,  anywhere  but  on  him :  because  you  will  under- 
stand how  impossible  it  is  for  one  person  to  drink  in  the 
full  beauty  of  another  if  checked  by  that  other's  watehf u]  - 
ness.  Molly,  at  all  events,  understands  it  thoroughly. 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  53 

When  she  is  quite  close  to  him,  so  close  that  if  she  sth-g 
her  dress  must  touch  him,  so  close  that  her  flower-like  face 
is  dangerously  near  his  arm,  she  whispers,  softly : 

"I  am  sorry." 

"  Are  you?"  says  Luttrell,  stupidly,  although  his  heart 
is  throbbing  passionately,  although  ever}'  pulse  is  beating 
almost  to  pain.  If  his  life  depended  upon  it,  or  perhaps 
because  of  it,  he  can  frame  no  more  eloquent  speech. 

"Yes,"  murmurs  Molly,  with  a  thorough  comprehen- 
sion of  all  he  is  feeling.  "And  now  we  will  be  friends 
again,  will  we  not?  "  Holding  out  to  him  a  little  cool,  shj 
hand. 

"  Not  friends,"  says  the  young  man,  in  a  low,  passionate 
tone,  clasping  her  hand  eagerly :  "  it  is  too  cold  a  word.  I 
cannot  be  your  friend.  Your  lover,  your  slave,  if  you  will ; 
only  let  me  feel  near  to  you.  Molly," — abandoning  her 
slender  fingers  for  the  far  sweeter  possession  of  herself,  and 
folding  his  arms  around  her  with  gentle  audacity, — "  speak 
to  me.  Why  are  you  so  silent?  Why  do  you  not  even 
look  at  me?  You  cannot  want  me  to  tell  you  of  the  love 
that  is  consuming  me,  because  you  know  of  it." 

"I  don't  think  you  ought  to  speak  to  me  like  this  at 
all,"  says  Molly,  severely,  drawing  herself  out  of  his  em- 
brace, not  hurriedly  or  angrily,  but  surely ;  "  I  am  almost 
positive  you  should  not ;  and — and  John  might  not  like  it." 

"  I  don't  care  a  farthing  what  John  likes,"  exclaims  Lut- 
trell, rather  forcibly,  giving  wings  to  his  manners,  as  his 
wrongs  of  the  evening  blossom.  "  What  has  he  or  any  one 
to  do  with  it  but  you  and  I  alone?  The  question  is,  do 
yottlike  it?" 

"  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  I  do,"  says  Molly,  doubtfully., 
with  a  little  distracting  shake  of  her  head.  ' '  You  are  so 
vehement,  and  I " 

"  Don't  go  on,"  interrupts  he,  hastily.  "  You  are  going 
to)  say  something  unkind,  and  I  won't  listen  to  it.  I  know 
it  by  your  eyes.  Darling,  why  are  you  so  cruel  to  me? 
Surely  you  must  care  for  me,  be  it  ever  such  a  little.  To 
think  otherwise  would —  But  I  will  not  think  it.  Molly, 
— with  increasing  fervor, — "say  you  will  marry  me." 

"  But  indeed  I  can't,"  exclaims  Miss  Massereene,  retreat- 
ing a  step  or  two,  and  glancing  at  him  furtively  from  under 
her  long  lashes.  "  At  least " — relenting  a  little,  as  she  sees 
his  face  change  and  whiten  at  her  words — '  not  yet.  It  is 
all  so  sudden,  so  unexpected;  and  ^ou  forget  T  ^  not  a<y> 


54  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

eastern  ed  to  this  sort  of  thing.  Now,  the  curates  " — with 
an  irrepressible  smile — "  never  went  on  like  this:  they  al- 
ways behaved  modestly  and  with  such  propriety. '' 

"'The  curates!'  What  do  they  know  about  it?"  re- 
turns this  young  man,  most  unjustly.  "  Do  you  suppose 
I  love  you  like  a  curate?  " 

"  And  yet,  when  all  is  told,  I  suppose  a  curate  is  a  man," 
says  Molly,  uncertainly,  as  one  doubtful  of  the  truth  of  her 
assertion,  "and  a  well-behaved  one,  too,  Now,  you  are 
quite  different;  and  you  have  known  me  such  a  little 
time." 

"  What  has  time  to  do  with  it?  The  beginning  and  the 
ending  of  the  whole  matter  is  this :  I  love  you !  " 

He  is  holding  her  hands  and  gazing  down  into  her  face 
with  all  his  heart  in  his  eyes,  waiting  for  her  next  words, 
— may  they  not  decide  his  fate? — while  she  is  feeling  noth- 
ing in  the  world  but  a  mad  desire  to  break  into  laughter, 
— a  desire  that  arises  half  from  nervousness,  half  from  an 
irrepressible  longing  to  destroy  the  solemnity  of  the  scene. 

"  A  pinch  for  stale  news,"  says  she,  at  last,  with  a  friv- 
olity most  unworthy  of  the  occasion,  but  in  the  softest, 
merriest  whisper. 

They  are  both  young.  The  laugh  is  contagious.  After 
a  moment's  struggle  with  his  dignity,  he  echoes  it. 

"  You  can  jest,"  says  he :  "  surely  that  is  a  good  sign.  I* 
you  were  going  to  refuse  me  you  would  not  laugh.  Be- 
loved,"— taking  her  into  his  fond  arms  again, — "  say  one 
little  word  to  make  me  happy." 

"Will  any  little  word  do?  Long  ago,  in  the  dark  ages 
when  I  was  a  child,  I  remember  being  asked  a  riddle 
d  propos  of  short  words.  I  will  ask  it  to  you  now.  What 
three  letters  contain  everything  in  the  world?  Guess." 

"  No  need  to  guess :  I  know.  YES  would  contain  every- 
thing in  the  world  for  me." 

"You  are  wrong,  then.  It  is  ALL, — all.  Absurd,  isn't 
it?  I  must  have  been  very  young  when  I  thought  that 
clever.  But  to  return :  would  that  little  word  do  you  ?  " 

"Say  'Yes/ Molly." 

"  And  if  I  say  '  No/  what  then?  Will  you  throw  your- 
self into  this  small  river?  Or  perhaps  hang  yourself  to  the 
nearest  tree?  Or,  worse  still,  refuse  to  speak  to  me  ever 
again?  Or  *  go  to  skin  and  bone/  as  my_  old  nurse  used  to 
say  I  would  when  I  refused  a  fifth  meal  in  the  day  ?  Tell 
me  which?" 


MOLLY  SAWN.  95 

lt  A    t-faater  evil  than  all  those  would  befall  me  :  I  shonid 


live  with  no  nearer  companion  than  a  perpetual  regr«t, 
But"  —  with  a  shudder  —  "I  will  not  believe  myself  so 
doomed.  Molly,  say  what  I  ask  you." 

"  Well,  '  Yes/  then,  since  you  will  have  it  so.  Though 
why  you  are  so  bent  on  your  own  destruction  puzzles  me. 
Do  you  know  you  never  spoke  to  me  all  this  evening?  I 
don't  believe  yau  love  me  as  well  as  you  say." 

"Don't  I?"  wistfully.  Then,  with  sudden  excitement, 
"  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  I  did  not,"  he  says,  "  or  at  leas- 
with  only  half  the  strength  I  do.  If  I  could  regulate  my 
affections  so,  I  might  have  some  small  chance  of  happi- 
ness ;  but  as  it  is  I  doubt  —  I  fear.  Molly,  do  you  care  101 
me?" 

"  At  times,"  —  mischievously  —  "  I  do  —  a  little." 

11  And  you  know  I  love  you?  " 

"  Yes,  —  it  may  be,  —  when  it  suits  you." 

"  And  you,"  —  tightening  his  arms  round  her,  —  "some 
time  you  will  love  me,  my  sweet  ?  " 

"  Yes,  —  perhaps  so,  —  when  it  suits  me." 

"Molly,"  says  Luttrell  after  a  pause,  "won't  you  kiss 
me?" 

As  he  speaks  he  stoops,  bringing  his  cheek  very  close  to 
hers. 

"'Kiss  you*?"  says  Molly,  shrinking  away  from  him, 
while  flushing  and  reddening  honestly  now.  "  No,  I  think 
not.  I  never  in  all  my  life  kissed  any  man  but  John,  and 
—  I  don't  believe  I  should  like  it.  No,  no  ;  if  I  cannot  be 
engaged  to  you  without  kissing  you,  I  will  not  be  engaged 
to  you  at  all." 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  wish,"  says  Luttrell,  very  patiently, 
considering  all  things. 

"You  mean  it?"  Still  keeping  well  away  from  him, 
and  hesitating  about  giving  the  hand  he  is  holding  out  his 
to  receive." 

"  Certainly  I  do." 

"  And  "  —  anxiously  —  "  you  don't  mind?" 

"  Mind?  "  says  he,  with  wrathful  reproach.  "  Of  course 
I  mind.  Am  I  a  stick  or  a  stone,  do  you  think?  You 
might  as  well  tell  me  in  so  many  words  of  your  utter  in- 
difference to  me  as  refuse  to  kiss  me." 

"  Do  all  women  kiss  the  men  they  promise  to  marry?  " 

"  All  women  kiss  the  men  they  love." 

"  What,  whether  they  ask  them  or  not?" 


56  MOLLY  BAWN. 

"  Of  course  I  mean  when  they  are  asked.'' 

"  Even  if  at  the  time  they  happen  to  be  married  to  some- 
body else?  " 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  that,"  says  Luttrell, 
growing  ashamed  of  himself  and  his  argument  beneath  the 
large,  horror-stricken  eyes  of  his  companion.  "I  was 
merely  supposing  a  case  where  marriage  and  love  went 
hand  in  hand.'' 

"Don't  suppose,"  says  Miss  Massereene;  "there  is 
nothing  so  tiresome.  It  is  like  '  fourthly '  and  '  fifthly '  ira 
a  sermon:  you  never  know  where  it  may  lead  you.  Am  I 
to  understand  that  all  women  want  to  kiss  the  man  they 
love?" 

"  Certainly  they  do,"  stoutly. 

"  How  very  odd !  "  says  Molly. 

After  which  there  is  a  most  decided  pause. 

Presently,  as  though  she  had  been  pondering  all  things, 
she  says : 

"TV' ell,  there  is  one  thing:  I  don't  mind  your  having 
your  arms  round  me  a  bit,  not  in  the  least.  That  must  be 
something.  I  would  quite  as  soon  they  were  there  as  not." 

"  I  suppose  that  is  a  step  in  the  right  direction,"  says 
Luttrell,  trying  not  to  see  the  meaning  in  her  words,  be- 
cause too  depressed  to  accept  the  comic  side  of  it. 

"  You  are  unhappy,"  says  Molly,  remorsefully,  heaving 
a  quickly  suppressed  sigh.  "Why?  Because  I  won't  be 
good  to  you?  Well," — coloring  crimson  and  leaning  her 
head  back  against  his  shoulder  with  the  air  of  a  martyr, 
so  that  her  face  is  upturned, — "  you  may  kiss  me  once,  if 
you  wish, — but  only  onoe,  mind, — because  I  can't  bear  to 
see  you  miserable." 

"  No,"  returns  Luttrell,  valiantly,  refusing  by  a  supreme 
effort  to  allow  himself  to  be  tempted  by  a  look  at  her 
beauty,  ' '  I  will  not  kiss  you  so.  Why  should  you  be  made 
unhappy,  and  by  me?  Keep  such  gifts,  Molly,  until  you 
can  bestow  them  of  your  own  free  will." 

But  Molly  is  determined  to  be  generous. 

"  See,  I  will  give  you  this  one  freely,"  she  says,  with 
unwonted  sweetness,  knowing  that  she  is  gaining  more 
than  she  is  giving ;  and  thus  persuaded,  he  presses  his  lips 
to  the  warm  tender  ones  so  near  his  own,  while  for  one  mad 
moment  he  is  absurdly  happy. 

"  You  really  do  love  me? "  asks  Molly,  presently,  as 
though  just  awakening  to  the  fact. 


MOLLY  BAWN.  57 

"  My  darling! — my  angel!  "  whispers  he,  wnicn  is  con- 
clusive ;  because  when  a  man  can  honestly  bring  himself  to 
believe  a  woman  an  angel  he  must  be  very  far  gone  indeed. 

"  I  fancy  we  ought  to  go  in/'  says  Molly,  a  little  later; 
"  they  will  be  wondering  where  we  axe." 

"  They  cannot  have  missed  us  yet;  it  is  too  soon." 

"Soon!  Why,  it  must  be  hours  since  we  came  out 
here,*'  says  Molly,  with  uplifted  brows. 

"  Have  you  found  it  so  very  long?  "  asks  he,  aggrieved. 

"No," — resenting  his  tone  in  a  degree, — "I  have  not 
been  bored  to  death,  if  you  mean  that ;  but  I  am  not  so 
dead  to  the  outer  world  that  I  cannot  tell  whether  time  has 
been  short  or  long.  And  it  is  long,"  viciously. 

"  At  that  rate,  I  think  we  had  better  go  in,"  replies  he, 
somewhat  stiffly. 

As  they  draw  near  the  house,  so  near  that  the  lights 
from  the  open  drawing-room  windows  make  yellow  paths 
across  the  grass  that  runs  their  points  almost  to  their  feet, 
• — Luttrell  stops  short  to  say : 

"Shall  I  speak  to  John  to-night  or  to-morrow  morn- 
ing?" 

"Oh!  neither  to-night  nor  to-morrow,"  cries  Molly, 
frightened.  "  Not  for  ever  so  long.  Why  talk  about  it  at 
all?  Only  a  few  minutes  ago  nothing  was  farther  from  my 
thoughts,  and  now  you  would  publish  it  on  the  house-tops ! 
Just  think  what  it  will  be  to  have  every  one  wondering  and 
whispering  about  one,  and  saying,  '  Now  they  have  had  a 
quarrel/  and  '  Now  they  have  made  it  up  again/  Or,  '  See 
how  she  is  flirting  with  somebody  else.'  I  could  not  bear 
it,"  says  Molly,  blind  to  the  growing  anger  on  the  young 
man's  face  as  he  listens  to  and  fully  takes  in  the  sugges- 
tions contained  in  these  imaginary  speeches;  "it  would 
make  me  wretched.  It  might  make  me  hate  you!" 

"Molly!" 

"  Yes,  it  might;  and  then  what  would  you  do?  Let  us 
keep  it  a  secret,"  says  Molly,  coaxingly,  slipping  her  hand 
into  his,  with  a  little  persuasive  pressure.  "  You  see,  every- 
thing about  it  is  so  far  distant ;  and  perhaps — who  knows? 
— it  may  never  come  to  anything." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  "  demands  he,  passionately, 
drawing  her  to  him.  and  bending  to  examine  her  face  in 
the  uncertain  lignt.  ' '  Do  you  suppose  I  am  a  boy  or  a 
fool,  that  you  so  speak  to  me?  Am  I  so  very  happy  that 
you  deem  it  necessary  to  blast  my  joy  like  this?  or  is  k 


58  MOLLY  SAWN. 

merely  to  try  me?  Tell  me  the  truth  now,  at  once:  do 
mean  to  throw  me  over?" 

"  I  do  not,"  with  surprise.  "  What  has  put  such  an 
idea  into  your  head?  If  I  did,  why  be  engaged  to  you  at 
any  time?  It  is  a  great  deal  more  likely,  when  you  come 
to  know  me  better,  that  you  will  throw  me  over." 

"  Don't  build  your  hopes  on  that,"  says  Luttrell,  grimly, 
with  a  rather  sad  smile.  "  I  am  not  the  sort  of  fellow 
likely  to  commit  suicide ;  and  to  resign  you  would  be  to 
resign  life." 

"  Well,"  says  Molly,  "  if  I  am  ever  to  say  anything  on 
the  subject  I  may  as  well  say  it  now ;  and  I  must  confess  I 
think  you  are  behaving  very  foolishly.  I  may  be — I  prob- 
ably am — good  to  look  at;  but  what  is  the  use  of  that? 
You,  who  have  seen  so  much  of  the  world,  have,  of  course, 
known  people  ten  times  prettier  than  I  am,  and — perhaps 
— fonder  of  you.  And  still  you  come  all  the  way  down 
here  to  this  stupid  place  to  fall  in  love  with  me,  a  girl 
without  a  penny!  I  really  think,"  winds  up  Molly,  grow- 
ing positively  melancholy  over  his  lack  of  sense,  "it Is  the 
most  absurd  thing  I  ever  heard  in  my  life." 

"  I  wish  I  could  argue  with  your  admirable  indifference," 
says  he,  bitterly. 

"  If  I  was  indifferent  I  would  not  argue,"  says  Molly, 
offended.  "  I  would  not  trouble  myself  to  utter  a  word  of 
warning.  You  ought  to  be  immensely  obliged  to  me  in- 
stead of  sneering  and  wrinkling  up  all  your  forehead  into 
one  big  frown.  Are  you  going  to  be  angry  again?  I  do 
hope,"  say g  Molly,  anxiously,  "you  are  not  naturally  ill- 
tempered,  because,  if  so,  on  no  account  would  I  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  you." 

"  I  am  not,"  replies  he,  compelled  to  laughter  by  her  per- 
turbed face.  "  Keassure  yourself.  I  seldom  forget  myself 
in  this  way.  And  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  have  a  fearful  temper,"  says  Molly,  with  a 
eharmingsmile ;  "that  is  why  I  want  to  make  sure  of 
yours.  Because  two  tyrants  in  one  house  would  infallibly 
bring  the  roof  about  their  ears.  Now,  Mr.  Luttrell,  that  I 
have  made  this  confession,  will  you  still  tell  me  you  are 
not  frightened?" 

"Nothing  frightens  me,"  whispers  he,  holding  her  to 
his  heart  and  pressing  his  lips  to  her  fair,  cool  cheek, 
"since  you  an;  my  own, — my  sweet, — my  beloved.  But 
cull  Die  Teduistle,  won't  you?" 


MOLLY  BAWN.  59 


"  It  is  too  long  a  name/' 
"  Then  alter  it.  and  call  me- 


"  Teddv?  I  think  I  like  that  best;  and  perhaps  I  shall 
have  it  all  to  myself." 

"I  am  afraid  not,"  laughing.  "All  the  fellows  in  the 
regiment  christened  me  '  Teddy '  before  I  had  been  in  a 
week." 

"  Did  they?  Well,  never  mind;  it  only  shows  what  good 
taste  they  had.  The  name  just  suits  you,  you  are  so  fair 
and  young,  and  handsome,''  says  Molly,  patting  his  cheek 
with  considerable  condescension.  "  Now,  one  thing  more 
before  we  go  in  to  receive  our  scolding:  you  are  not  to 
make  love  to  me  again — not  even  to  mention  the  word — 
until  a  whole  week  has  passed:  promise." 

"  I  could  not." 

"  You  must." 

"  Well,  then,  it  will  be  a  pie-crust  promise." 

"No,  I  forbid  you  to  break  it.  I  can  endure  a  little  of 
it  now  and  again,"  says  Molly,  with  intense  seriousness, 
"  but  to  be  made  love  to  always,  every  day,  would  kill  me." 


CHAPTER   VII. 

"  Then  they  sat  down  and  talked 
Of  their  friends  at  home  .  .  . 
****** 

And  related  the  wondrous  adventure." 

Courtship  of  Miles  Standisk. 

"  Do  exert  yourself,"  says  Molly.  "  I  never  saw  any  one 
so  lazy.  You  don't  pick  one  to  my  ten." 

"  I  can't  see  how  you  make  that  out,"  says  her  compan- 
ion in  an  injured  tone.  "  For  the  last  three  minutes  you 
have  sat  with  your  hands  in  your  lap  arguing  about  what 
you  don't  understand  in  the  least,  while  I  have  been  con- 
scientiously slaving ;  and  before  that  you  ate  two  for  every 
one  you  put  in  the  basket." 

"I  never  heard  any  one  talk  PO  much  as  you  do,  when 
once  fairly  started,"  says  Molly.  "  Here,  open  your  mouth 
until  I  put  in  this  strawberry;  perhaps  h  wiJl  step 
you." 


60  MOLLY  BAWN. 

"  And  I  find  it  impossible  to  do  anything  -with  this  um- 
brella," says  Luttrell,  still  ungrateful,  eying  with  muck 
distaste  the  ancient  article  he  holds  aloft:  "  it  is  abomina- 
bly in  the  way.  I  wouldn't  mind  if  you  wanted  it,  but 
you  cannot  with  that  gigantic  hat  you  are  wearing.  May 
I  put  it  down?" 

"  Certainly  not,  unless  you  wish  me  to  have  a  sun-stroke. 
Do  you?" 

"  No,  but  I  really  think " 

"Don't  think,"  says  Molly:  "  it  is  too  fatiguing;  and  if 
you  get  used  up  now,  I  don't  see  what  Letitia  will  do  for 
her  jam." 

"  Why  do  people  make  jam?"  asks  Luttrell,  despair- 
ingly; "they  wouldn't  if  they  had  the  picking  of  it:  and 
nobody  ever  eats  it,  do  they  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do.  I  love  it.  Let  that  thought  cheer  you  on 
to  victory.  Oh !  here  is  another  fat  one,  such  a  monster. 
Open  your  mouth  again,  wide,  and  you  shall  have  it,  be- 
cause you  really  do  begin  to  look  weak." 

They  are  sitting  on  the  strawberry  bank,  close  togethar, 
with  a  small  square  basket  between  them,  and  the  pretty 
red  and  white  fruit  hanging  from  its  dainty  stalks  all 
round  them. 

Molly,  in  a  huge  hat  that  only  partially  conceals  her  face 
and  throws  a  shadow  over  her  glorious  eyes,  is  intent  upon 
her  task,  while  Luttrell,  sitting  opposite  to  her,  holds  over 
her  head  the  very  largest  family  umbrella  ever  built.  It  is 
evidently  an  old  and  esteemed  friend,  that  has  worn  itself 
out  in  the  Massereenes'  service,  and  now  shows  daylight 
here  and  there  through  its  covering  where  it  should  not. 
A  troublesome  scorching  ray  comes  through  one  of  these 
impromptu  air-holes  and  alights  persistently  on  his  face ;  at 
present  it  is  on  his  nose,  and  makes  that  feature  appear  a 
good  degree  larger  than  Nature,  who  has  been  very  gener- 
ous to  it,  ever  intended. 

It  might  strike  a  keen  observer  that  Mr.  Luttrell  doesn't 
like  the  umbrella ;  either  it  or  the  wicked  sunbeams,  or  the 
heat  generally,  is  telling  on  him,  slowly  but  surely ;  he  has 
a  depressed  and  melancholy  air. 

"  Is  it  good?"  asks  Molly,  d propos  of  the  strawberry. 
"  There,  you  need  not  bite  my  finger.  Will  you  have  an- 
other? You  really  do  look  very  badly.  You  don't  think 
you  are  going  to  faint,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Molly/'  taking  no  notice  of  her  graceful  badinage, 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  61 

"why  don't  you  get  your  grandfather  to  incite  you  t« 
Herst  Koyal  for  the  autumn?  Could  you  not  manage  it  in 
some  way?  I  wish  it  could  be  done." 

"So  do  I,"  returns  she,  frankly,  "  but  there  is  not  the 
remotest  chance  of  it.  It  would  be  quite  as  likely  that  the 
skies  should  fall.  Why,  he  does  not  even  acknowledge  me 
as  a  member  of  the  family." 

' '  Old  brute !  "  says  Luttrell  from  his  heart. 

"  Well,  it  has  always  been  rather  a  regret  to  me,  his  neg- 
lect, I  mean,"  says  "Molly,  thoughtfully,  "and  besides, 
though  I  know  it  is  poor-spirited  of  me,  I  confess  I  have 
the  greatest  longing  to  see  my  grandfather." 

"  To  '  see  '  your  grandfather?  " 

"Exactly." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  growing  absolutely  animated 
through  his  surprise,  "  that  you  have  never  been  face  to 
face  with  him? 

"  Never.  I  thought  you  knew  that.  Why,  how  amazed 
you  look !  Is  there  anything  the  matter  with  him  ?  is  he 
without  arms,  or  legs?  or  has  he  had  his  nose  shot  off  in 
any  campaign  ?  If  so,  break  it  to  me  gently,  and  spare  me 
the  shock  I  might  experience,  if  ever  I  make  my  curtsey 
to  him." 

"  It  isn't  that,"  says  Tedcastle:  "  there's  nothing  wrong 
with  him  beyond  old  age,  and  a  beastly  temper;  but  it 
seems  so  odd  that,  living  all  your  life  in  the  very  next 
county  to  his,  you  should  never  have  met." 

"  It  is  not  so  odd,  after  all,  when  you  come  to  think  of 
it,"  says  Molly,  "  considering  he  never  goes  anywhere,  as  I 
have  heard,  and  that  I  lead  quite  as  lively  an  existence. 
But  is  he  not  a  stern  old  thing,  to  keep  up  a  quarrel  for  so 
many  years,  especially  as  it  wasn't  my  fault,  you  know  ?  I 
didn't  insist  on  being  born.  Poor  mother !  I  think  she 
was  quite  right  to  run  away  with  papa,  when  she  loved 
him." 

"  Quite  right,"  enthusiastically. 

"  What  made  her  crime  so  unpardonable  was  the  fact 
that  she  was  engaged  to  another  man  at  the  time,  some 
rich  parti  chosen  by  her  father,  whom  she  thought  she 
liked  well  enough  until  she  saw  papa,  and  then  she  knew, 
and  threw  away  everything  for  her  love ;  and  she  did  well," 
says  Molly,  with  more  excitement  than  would  be  expected 
from  her  on  a  sentimental  subject. 

"  Still,  it  was  rather  hard  on  the  first  man,  don't  you 


68  Af&LL  Y  BA  WN. 

think?"  says  Luttreii.     There  is  rather  less  enthusiasm  is 
his  tone  this  time. 

"  One  should  go  to  the  wall,  you  know,"  argues  Molly, 
calmly,  "and  I  for  my  part  would  not  hesitate  about  it. 
Now,  let  us  suppose  I  am  engaged  to  you  without  caring 
very  much  about  you,  you  know,  and  all  that,  and  suppos- 
ing then  1  saw  another  I  liked  better, — why,  then,  I  hon- 
estly confess  I  would  not  hold  to  my  engagement  with  you 
for  an  hour !  " 

Here  that  wicked  sunbeam,  with  a  depravity  unlocked 
for,  falling  straight  through  the  chink  of  the  umbrella 
into  Mr.  Luttrell's  eye,  maddens  him  to  such  a  degree  that. 
he  rises  precipitately,  shuts  the  cause  of  his  misfortune 
with  a  bang,  and  turns  on  Molly. 

"I  won't  hold  it  up  another  instant, "  he  says;  "you 
needn't  think  it.  I  wonder  Massereene  wouldn't  keep  a 
decent  umbrella  in  his  hall/' 

"What's  the  matter  with  it?     I  see  nothing  indecent, 
about  it :  I  think  it  a  very  charming  umbrella,"  says  Molly, 
examining  the  article  in  question  with  a  critical  eye. 

"  Well,  at  all  events,  this  orchard  is  oppressive.  If  you 
don't  want  to  kill  me,  you  will  leave  it,  and  come  to  the 
wood.,  where  we  may  know  what  shade  means!  " 

"  ^Nonsense !  "  returns  Molly,  unmoved.  "  It  is  delicious 
here,  and  I  won't  stir.  How  can  you  talk  in  that  wild  way 
about  no  shade,  when  you  have  this  beautiful  apple-tree 
right  over  your  head?  Come  and  sit  at  this  side;  perhaps," 
with  a  smile,  "you  will  feel  more  comfortable — next  to 
me?" 

Thus  beguiled,  he  yields,  and  seats  himself  beside  her — 
very  much  beside  her — and  reconciles  himself  to  his  fate. 

"I  wish  you  would  remember,"  she  says,  presently, 
"that  you  have  nothing  on  your  head.  I  would  not  be 
rash  if  I  were  you.  Take  my  advice  and  open  the  um- 
brella again,  or  you  will  assuredly  be  having  a  sun-stroke." 

This  is  one  for  him  and  two  for  herself ;  and — need  I 
say? — the  family  friend  is  once  more  unfurled,  and  waves 
to  and  fro  majestically  in  the  soft  wind. 

"Now,  don'i1  you  feel  better?"  asks  Molly,  placing  her 
two  fingers  beneath  his  chin,  and  turning  his  still  rather 
angry  face  toward  her. 

I  do,"  replies  he;  and  a  smile  creeping  up  into  hia 
©yes  slays  the  chagrin  that  still  lingers  there,  but  naif 
perdu. 


ATOLL  Y  BA  WN.  09 

**  And — are  you  happy?  " 

4  Very." 

'  Intensely  happy  P  " 

'  Yes." 

*  So  much  so  that  you  could  not  be  more  BO?  " 

'  Yes,"  replies  he  again,  laughing,  and  slipping  his  arm 
round  her  waist.  "  And  you?  tenderly. 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right!  "  says  Miss  Massereene,  with  much 
graciousness,  but  rather  disheartening  vivacity.  "  And 
now  begin,  Teddy,  and  tell  me  all  about  Herat  Royal  and 
its  inmates.  First,  is  it  a  pretty  place?" 

"  It  is  a  magnificent  place.  But  for  its  attractions,  and 
his  twenty  thousand  pounds  a  year,  I  don't  believe  your 
grandfather  would  be  known  by  any  one ;  he  is  such  a  reg- 
ular old  bear.  Yet  he  is  fond  of  society,  and  is  never  con- 
tent until  he  has  the  house  crammed  with  people,  from 
garret  to  basement,  to  whom  he  makes  himself  odiously 
disagreeable  whenever  occasion  offers.  I  have  an  invita- 
tion there  for  September  and  October." 

"Will  you  go?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  have  hardly  made  up  my  mind.  I 
have  been  asked  to  the  Careys,  and  the  Brownes  also;  and 
I  rather  fancy  the  Brownes.  They  are  the  most  affording 
people  I  ever  met :  one  always  puts  in  such  a  good  time 
at  their  place.  But  for  one  reason  I  would  go  there." 

"What  reason?" 

"  That  Herst  is  so  much  nearer  to  Brooklyn,"  with  a 
fond  smile.  "  And,  perhaps,  if  I  came  over  once  or  twice, 
you  would  be  glad  to  see  me?  " 

"  Oh,  would  I  not !  "  cries  Molly,  her  faultless  face  light- 
ing up  at  his  words.  "  You  may  be  sure  of  it.  You  won't 
forget,  will  you?  And  you  will  come  early,  so  as  to  spend 
the  entire  day  here,  and  tell  me  all  about  the  others  who 
will  be  staying  there.  Do  you  know  my  cousin  Marcia?  " 

"  Miss  Amherst?  Yes.  She  is  very  handsome,  but  tot 
statuesque  to  please  me." 

"  Am  I  better-looking?  " 

"  Ten  thousand  times." 

"  And  Philip  Shadwell ;  he  is  my  cousin  also.  DC  you 
know  him?" 

Very  intimately.  He  is  handsome  also,  but  of  a  dark 
Moorish  sort  of  beauty.  Not  a  popular  man,  by  any  means. 
Too  reserved, — cold, — I  don't  know  what  it  is.  Have 
yeu  aay  ether  cousins?" 


64  MOLLY  BAWX. 

"  Not  on  my  mother's  side.  Grandpa  had  but  three  chil- 
dren, you  know,—  my  mother,  and  Philip's  mother,  ana 
Mareia's  father :  he  married  an  Italian  actress,  which  must 
have  been  a  terrible  mesalliance,  and  yet  Marcia  is  made 
much  of,  while  I  am  not  even  recognized.  Does  it  not 
sound  unfair?" 

"  Unaccountable.  Especially  as  I  have  often  heard  yow 
mother  was  his  favorite  child !  " 

"  Perhaps  that  explains  his  harshness.  To  be  deeeived 
by  one  we  love  engenders  the  bitterest  hatred  of  all.  And 
yet  how  could  he  hate  poor  mamma?  John  says  she  had 
the  most  beautiful,  lovable  face." 

"  I  can  well  believe  it/'  replied  he,  gazing  with  undis- 
guised admiration  upon  the  perfect  profile  beside  him. 

"  And  Marcia  will  be  an  heiress,  I  suppose?  " 

"  She  and  Philip  will  divide  everything,  people  say,  the 
place,  of  course,  going  to  Philip.  Lucky  he !  Any  oae 
might  envy  him.  You  know  they  both  live  there  entirely, 
although  Mareia's  mother  is  alive  and  resides  somewhere 
abroad.  Philip  was  in  some  dragoon  regiment,  but  sold 
out  about  two  years  ago :  debt,  I  fancy,  was  the  cnuse,  or 
something  like  it." 

"  Marcia  is  the  girl  you  ought  to  have  fallen  in  love 
with,  Ted." 

"No,  thank  you;  I  very  much  prefer  her  cousin.  Be- 
sides, I  should  have  no  chance,  as  she  and  Philip  are  en- 
gaged to  each  other:  they  thought  it  a  pity  to  divide  th« 
twenty  thousand  pounds  a  year.  Do  you  know,  Molly,  I 
never  knew  what  it  was  to  covet  my  neighbor's  goods  until 
I  met  you  ?  so  you  have  that  to  answer  for ;  but  it  does  seem 
hard  that  one  man  should  be  so  rich,  and  another  so  poor." 

'*  Are  you  poor,  Teddy?" 

"  Very.     Will  that  make  you  like  me  less?  " 

"  Probably  it  will  make  me  like  you  more,"  replies  she, 
with  a  bewitching  smile,  stroking  down  the  hand  that  sup- 
ports the  obnoxious  umbrella  (the  other  is  supporting  her- 
self) almost  tenderly.  "  It  is  only  the  very  nicest  men  that 
haven't  a  farthing  in  the  world.  I  have  no  money  either, 
and  if  I  had  I  could  not  keep  it:  so  we  are  well  met." 

"  But  think  what  a  bad  match  you  are  making,"  gays  he, 
regarding  her  curiously.  "Did  you  never  ask  yourself 
whether  I  was  well  off,  or  otherwise?  " 

'  Never !  "  with  a  gay  laugh.  "  If  I  were  going  to  marry 
you  next  week  or  so,  it  might  occur  to  ine  to  ask  the  ernes- 


MOLLY  SAWN;  65 

tion ;  b«t  everything  is  so  far  away,  what  does  it  signify  ? 
If  you  had  the  mines  of  Golconda,  I  should  not  like  you  a 
bit  better  than  I  do." 

"  My  own  darling !  Oh,  Molly,  how  you  differ  from 
most  girls  one  meets.  Now,  in  London,  once  they  find  out 
I  am  only  the  third  son,  they  throw  me  over  without  warn- 
ing, and  generally  manage  to  forget  the  extra  dance  they 
had  promised,  while  their  mothers  look  upon  me,  and  such 
as  me,  as  a  pestilence.  And  you,  sweetheart,  you  never 
once  asked  me  how  much  a  year  I  had !  " 

"You  have  your  pay,  I  suppose?"  says  Molly,  doubt- 
fully. "Is  that  much?" 

"Very  handsome,"  replies  he,  laughing;  "a  lieuten- 
ant's pay  generally  is.  But  I  have  something  besides  that ; 
about  as  much  as  most  fellows  would  spend  on  their 
stabling.  I  have  precisely  five  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a 
year,  neither  more  nor  less,  and  I  owe  two  hundred  pounds. 
Does  not  that  sound  tempting?  The  two  hundred  pounds 
I  owe  don't  count,  because  the  governor  will  pay  up  that ., 
he  always  does  in  the  long  run ;  and  I  haven't  asked  him 
for  anything  out  of  the  way  now  for  fully  eight  months." 
He  says  this  with  a  full  consciousness  of  his  own  virtue. 

"  I  call  five  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year  a  great 
deal,"  says  Molly,  with  a  faint  ring  of  disappointment  in 
her  tone.  "  I  fancied  you  downright  poor  from  what  you 
said.  Why,  you  might  marry  to-morrow  morning  on 
that." 

"So  I  might,"  agrees  he,  eagerly;  "'and  so  I  will. 
That  is,  not  to-morrow,  exactly,  but  as  soon  as  ever  I  can." 

"  Perhaps  you  will,"  says  Molly,  slowly;  "  but,  if  so,  it 
will  not  be  me  you  will  marry.  Bear  that  in  mind.  No, 
we  won't  argue  the  matter:  as  far  as  I  am  concerned  it 
doesn't  admit  of  argument."  Then  recurring  to  the 
former  topic:  "Why,  John  has  only  seven  hundred 
pounds,  and  he  has  all  the  children  and  Letitia  and  me  to 
provide  for,  and  he  keeps  Lovat — that  is  the  eldest  boy — 
at  a  very  good  school  as  well.  How  could  you  call  yourself 
poor,  with  five  hundred  pounds  a  year?  " 

"It  ought  to  be  six  hundred  and  fifty  pounds;  but  I 
thought  it  a  pity  to  burden  myself  with  superfluous  wealth 
in  my  palmy  days,  so  I  got  rid  of  it,"  says  he,  laughing. 

"  Gambling?  " 

"  WeU,  yes,  I  suppose  so," 


gg  MOLLY  B AWN. 

"  No,  horses.  It  was  in  India,— «tupid  part,  you  know, 
and  nothing  to  do.  Potts  suggested  military  races,  and 
-we  all  caught  at  it.  And — and  I  didn't  have  much  luck, 
you  know,"  winds  up  Luttrell,  ingenuously. 

"I  don't  like  that  young  man,"  says  Molly,  severely. 
"  You  are  always  talking  of  him,  and  he  is  my  idea  of  a 
ne'er-do-weel.  Your  Air.  Potts  seems  never  to  be  out  of 
mischief.  He  is  the  head  and  front  of  every  offense." 

"  Are  you  talking  of  Potts?  "  says  her  lover,  in  grioved 
amazement.  "A  better  fellow  never  stepped.  Nothing 
underhand  about  Potts.  When  you  see  him  you  will  agree 
with  me." 

"  I  will  not.  I  can  see  him  in  my  mind's  eye  already.  I 
know  he  is  tall,  and  dark,  and  insinuating,  and,  in  fact,  a 
Mephistopheles. " 

Luttrell  roars. 

"  Oh,  if  you  could  but  see  Potts !  "  he  says.  "  He  is  the 

best  fellow  in  the  world,  but He  ought  to  be  called 

Buf us :  hie  hair  is  red,  his  face  is  red,  his  nose  is  red,  he  is 
all  red,"  finishes  Tedcastle,  with  a  keen  enjoyment  of  his 
friend's  misfortunes. 

"  Poor  man,"  kindly ;  "  I  forgive  him  his  small  sins ;  he 
must  be  sufficiently  punished  by  his  ugliness.  Did  you 
like  being  in  India?" 

"  Pretty  well.  At  times  it  was  rather  slow,  and  our 
regiment  has  somehow  gone  to  the  dogs  of  late.  No  end 
of  underbred  fellows  have  joined,  with  quite  too  much  tha 
linen-draper  about  them  to  be  tolerated. 

"How  sad !  Your  candor  amazes  me.  I  thought  every 
soldier  made  it  a  point  to  be  enthusiastic  over  his  brother 
soldiers,  whether  by  being  so  he  lied  or  not." 

"Then  look  upon  me  as  an  exception.  The  fact  is,  I 
grew  rather  discontented  about  three  years  ago  when  my 
greatest  chum  sold  out  and  got  married.  You  nave  no  idea 
how  lost  a  fellow  feels  when  that  happens.  But  for  Pott* 
I  might  have  succumbed. " 

"  Potte !  what  a,  sweet  name  it  is !  "  says  Molly,  mischiev- 
ously. 

"  What's  in  a  name?  "  with  a  laugh.  "  He  was  gener- 
ally called  Mrs.  Luttrell,  we  were  so  much  together:  so 
his  own  didn't  matter.  But  I  missed  Penthony  Stafford 
awfully." 

"  And  Mrs.  Penthony,  did  you  like  her?  v 

"Lady  Staff ord,  you  mean?    Puutlaony  is  a 


MOLL  Y  JSA  WN.  67 

Yes,  1  like  her  immensely,  and  the  whole  affair  was  so 
peculiar.  You  won't  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that, 
though  they  have  now  been  married  for  three  years,  her 
husband  has  never  seen  her." 

"  But  that  would  be  impossible." 

"It  is  a  fact  for  all  that.  Shall  I  tell  you  the  story P 
Most  people  know  it  by  this,  I  think :  so  I  am  breaking  no 
faith  by  telling  it  to  you." 

"  Never  mind  whether  you  are  or  not,"  says  Molly :  "  I 
must  and  will  hear  it  now." 

"  Well,  to  begin  with,  you  must  understand  that  she 
and  her  husband  are  first  cousins.  Have  you  mastered 
that  fact?" 

"  Though  not  particularly  gifted,  I  think  I  have.  I 
rather  flatter  myself  I  could  master  more  than  that,"  says 
Molly,  significantly,  giving  his  ear  a  pinch,  short  but  sharp. 

"She  is  also  a  cousin  of  mine,  though  not  so  near. 
Well,  about  three  years  ago,  when  she  was  only  Cecil  Har- 
grave,  and  extremely  poor,  an  uncle  of  theirs  died,  leaving 
his  entire  property,  which  was  very  considerable,  between 
them,  on  the  condition  that  they  should  marry  each  other. 
If  they  refused,  it  was  to  go  to  a  lunatic  asylum,  or  a  refuge 
for  dogs,  or  something  equally  uninteresting." 

"  He  would  have  made  a  very  successful  lunatic  himself. 
it  seems  to  me.  What  a  terrible  condition !  " 

"  Now,  up  to  this  they  had  been  utter  strangers  to  each 
other,  had  never  even  been  face  to  face,  and  being  told  they 
must  marry  whether  they  liked  it  or  not,  or  lose  tho 
money,  they  of  course  on  the  spot  conceived  an  undying 
hatred  for  each  other.  Penthony  even  refused  to  see  hia 
possible  wife,  when  urged  to  do  so,  and  Cecil,  on  her  part, 
quite  as  strenuously  opposed  a  meeting.  Still,  they  could 
not  make  up  their  minds  to  let  such  a  good  property  slip 
through  their  fingers." 

"It  was  hard." 

"  Things  dragged  on  so  for  three  months,  and  then, 
Cecil,  being  a  woman,  was  naturally  the  one  to  see  a  way 
out  of  it.  She  wrote  to  Sir  Penthony  saying,  if  he  would 
sign  a  deed  giving  her  a  third  of  the  money,  and  promising 
never  to  claim  her  as  his  wife,  or  interfere  with  her  in  any 
way,  beyond  having  the  marriage  ceremony  read  between 
them,  she  would  marry  him." 

"  And  he?  "  asks  Molly,  eagerly,  bending  forward  in  h«t 
u&ciiernent. 


63  MOLLY  BAWN. 

"Why,  he  agreed,  of  course.  What  was  it  to  him?  he 
had  never  seen  ner,  and  had  no  wish  to  make  her  acquaint- 
ance. The  document  was  signed,  the  license  was  procured. 
On  the  morning  of  the  wedding,  he  looked  up  a  best  man, 
and  went  down  to  the  country,  saw  nothing  of  his  bride 
wntil  a  few  minutes  before  the  service  began,  when  she  en- 
tered the  room  covered  with  so  thick  a  veil  that  he  saw 
quite  as  little  of  her  then,  was  married,  made  his  beat  bow 
to  the  new  Lady  Stafford,  and  immediately  returning  to 
town,  set  out  a  few  days  later  for  a  foreign  tour,  which  has 
lasted  ever  since.  Now,  is  not  that  a  thrilling  romance,  and 
have  I  not  described  it  graphically?  " 

"The  'Polite  Story-teller'  sinks  into  insignificance 
beside  you :  such  a  flow  of  language  deserves  a  better  audi- 
ence. But  really,  Teddy,  I  never  heard  so  extraordinar}^  a 
story.  To  marry  a  woman,  and  never  have  the  curiosity 
to  raise  her  veil  to  see  whether  she  was  ugly  or  pretty !  It 
is  inconceivable!  He  must  be  made  of  ice." 

"  He  is  warm-hearted,  and  one  of  the  jolliest  fellows  you 
could  meet.  Curiously  enough,  from  a  letter  he  wrote  me 
iust  before  starting  he  gave  me  the  impression  that  he  be- 
lieved his  wife  to  be  not  only  plain,  but  vulgar  in  appear- 
ance." 

"And  is  she?" 

"  She  is  positively  lovely.  Eather  small,  perhaps,  but 
exquisitely  fair,  with  large  laughing  blue  eyes,  and  the 
most  fetching  manner.  If  he  had  raised  her  veil,  I  don't 
believe  he  would  ever  have  gone  abroad  to  cultivate  the 
dusky  nigger." 

"  What  became  of  her, — '  poor  maid  forlorn? '  " 

"She  gave  up  'milking  the  cow  with  the  crumpled 
horn,'  and  the  country  generally,  and  came  up  to  London, 
where  she  took  a  house,  went  into  society,  and  was  tl*e 
rage  all  last  season." 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  him  how  pretty  she  was?  "  im- 
patiently. 

'  Because  I  was  in  Ireland  at  the  time  on  leave,  and 
heard  nothing  of  it  until  I  received  that  letter  telling  of 
the  marriage  and  his  departure.  I  was  thunderstruck, 
you  may  be  sure,  but  it  was  too  late  then  to  interfere. 
Some  one  told  me  the  other  day  he  is  on  his  war  home." 

'  When  Greek  meets  Greek '  we  know  what  hap- 
pens," aays  Molly.  "  I  think  their  meeting  will  be  awk- 
vracd," 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  60 

"  Rather.  She  is  to  be  at  Herst'this  autumn :  sh«  was  a 
ward  of  your  grandfather's." 

"  Don't  fall  in  love  with  her,  Teddy." 

"How  can  I,  when  you  have  put  it  out  of  my  power? 
There  is  no  room  in  my  heart  for  any  one  but  Molly  Bawn. 
Besides,  it  would  be  energy  wasted,  as  she  is  encased  in  steel. 
A  woman  in  her  equivocal  position,  and  possessed  of  so 
much  beauty,  might  be  supposed  to  find  it  difficult  to  steei 
her  bark  safely  through  all  the  temptations  of  a  London 
season;  yet  the  flattery  she  received,  and  all  the  devotion 
that  was  laid  at  her  feet,  touched  her  no  more  than  if  she 
was  ninety,  instead  of  twenty-three." 

"  Yet  what  a  risk  it  is !  How  will  it  be  some  day  if  she 
falls  in  love?  as  they  say  all  people  do  once  in  their  lives." 

"  Why,  then,  she  will  have  her  mauvais  quart-d'heure, 
like  the  rest  of  us.  Up  to  the  present  she  has  enjoyed  her 
life  to  the  utmost,  and  finds  everything  couleur  de  rose.7' 

"  Would  it  not  be  charming,"  says  Molly,  with  much 
empressem&nt,  "if,  when  Sir  Penthony  comes  home  and 
sees  her,  they  should  both  fall  in  love  with  each  other?  " 

"  Charming,  but  highly  improbable.  The  fates  are  sel- 
dom so  propitious.  It  is  far  more  likely  they  will  fall 
madly  in  love  with  two  other  people,  and  be  unhappy  erer 


"  Oh,  cease  such  raven's  croaking/'  says  Molly,  laying 
her  hand  upon  his  lips.  "  I  will  not  listen  to  it.  What- 
ever the  Fates  may  be,  Love,  I  know,  is  kind." 

"Is  it?"  asks  he,  wistfully.  "You  are  my  lore — are 
you  kind?" 

"And  you  are  my  lover,"  returns  Molly.  "  And  you 
most  certainly  are  not  kind,  for  that  is  the  third  time  you. 
have  all  but  run  that  horrid  umbrella  into  my  left  eye. 
Surely,  because  you  hold  it  up  for  your  own  personal  con- 
venience is  no  reason  why  you  should  make  it  an  instru- 
ment of  torture  to  every  one  else.  Now  you  may  finish 
picking  those  strawberries  without  me,  for  I  shall  not  stay 
here  another  instant  in  deadly  fear  of  being  blinded  for 
life." 

With  thig  speech — so  flagrantly  unjust  as  to  render  her 
companion  dumb — she  rises,  and  catching  up  her  gown, 
runs  swiftly  away  from  him  down  the  garden-path,  and 
under  the  wealthy  trees,  until  at  last  the  garden-gate  re- 
ceives her  in  its  embrace  and  hides  her  from  his  view. 


70  MOLLY  BAWff. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

*  Thine  eyes  I  love,  and  they  as  pitying  me, 
Knowing  thy  heart,  torment  me  with  disdain." 

— SHAKESPEARE. 

ALL  round  one  side  of  Brooklyn,  and  edging  on  to  the 
retired  butcher's  country  residence,  or  rather  what  he  is 
pleased  to  term,  with  a  knowing  jerk  of  the  thumb  over 
his  right  shoulder,  his  "  little  villar  in  the  south,"  stretches 
a  belt  of  trees,  named  by  courtesy  "the  wood."  It  is  a 
charming  spot,  widening  and  thickening  toward  one  corner, 
which  has  been  well  named  the  "Fairies'  Glen,"  where 
crowd  together  all  the  "  living  grasses"  and  wild  flowers 
that  thrive  and  bloom  so  bravely  when  nursed  on  the 
earth's  bosom. 

On  one  side  rise  gray  rocks,  cold  and  dead,  save  for  the 
little  happy  life  that,  springing  up  above,  flows  over  them, 
leaping,  laughing  from  crag  to  crag,  bedewing  leaf  and 
blossom,  and  dashing  its  gem-like  spray  over  all  the  lichens 
and  velvet  mosses  and  feathery  ferns  that  grow  luxuriantly 
to  hide  the  rugged  jags  of  stone. 

Here,  at  night,  the  owls  delight  to  hoot,  the  bats  go 
whirring  past,  the  moonbeams  surely  cast  their  kindest 
rays;  by  day  the  pigeons  coo  from  the  topmost  boughs 
their  tales  of  love,  while  squirrels  sit  blinking  merrily,  or 
run  their  Silvips  on  their  Derby  days. 

Just  now  it  is  neither  night  nor  garish  day,  but  a  soft, 
early  twilight,  and  on  the  sward  that  glows  as  green  as 
Erin's,  sit  Molly  and  her  attendant  slave. 

;i  The  reason  I  like  you,"  says  Molly,  reverting  to  some- 
thing that  has  gone  before,  and  tilting  back  her  hat  so  that 
all  her  pretty  face  is  laid  bare  to  the  envious  sunshine, 
while  the  soft  rippling  locks  on  her  forehead  make  ad- 
vances to  each  other  through  the  breeze,  "  the  reason  I 
like  you,— no,  "—seeing  a  tendency  on  his  part  to  creep 
nearer  no,  stay  where  you  are.  I  only  said  I  liked  you. 
i  1  had  mentioned  the  word  love,  then  indeed— but,  as  it 
is,^it  is  far  too  warm  to  admit  of  any  endearments." 

You  are  right,— as  you  always  are,"  says  Luttrell.  with 
suspicious  amiability,  being  piqued. 


MOLL  Y  J3A  WN.  71 

"You  interrupted  me,"  says  Miss  Maseereene,  leaning 
back  comfortably  and  raising  her  exquisite  eyes  in  lazy  ad- 
miration of  the  green  and  leafy  tangle  far  above  her.  "  1 
was  going  to  say  that  the  reason  I  like  you  so  muoh  is  be 
cause  you  look  so  young,  quite  as  young  as  I  do, — more  so, 
indeed,  I  think." 

"  It  is  a  poor  case,"  sayg  Luttrell,  "  when  a  girl  of  nine- 
teen looks  older  than  a  man  of  twenty-seven." 

"  That  is  not  the  way  to  put  it.  It  is  a  charming  and 
novel  case  when  a  man  of  twenty-seven  looks  younger  than 
a  girl  of  nineteen." 

"  How  much  younger?  "  asks  Luttrell,  who  is  still  suffi- 
ciently youthful  to  have  a  hankering  after  mature  age. 
"  Am  I  fourteen  or  nine  years  old  in  your  estimation?  " 

"Don't  let  us  dispute  the  point,"  says  Molly,  "and 
don't  get  cross.  I  see  you  are  on  for  a  hot  agurment,  and 
I  never  could  follow  even  a  mild  one.  I  think  you  young, 
and  you  should  be  glad  of  it,  as  it  is  the  one  good  thing  I 
see  about  you.  As  a  rule  I  prefer  dark  men, — but  for 
their  unhappy  knack  of  looking  old  from  their  cradles,— 
and  have  a  perfect  passion  for  black  eyes,  black  skin,  black 
locks,  and  a  general  appearance  of  fierceness !  Indeed,  I 
have  always  tnought,  up  to  this,  that  there  was  something 
about  a  fair  man  almost  ridiculous.  Have  not  you?  " 

Here  she  brings  her  eyes  back  to  the  earth  again,  and 
fastens  them  upon  him  with  the  most  engaging  frankness. 

"  No.  I  confess  it  never  occurred  to  me  before,"  re- 
turns Luttrell,  coloring  slightly  through  his  Saxo!a  skin. 

Silence.  If  there  is  any  silent  moment  in  the  throbbing 
Bummer.  Above  them  the  faint  music  of  the  leaves, 
below  the  breathing  of  the  flowers,  the  hum  of  insects. 
All  the  air  is  full  of  the  sweet  warblings  of  innumerable 
songsters.  Mingling  with  these  is  the  pleasant  drip,  drij? 
of  the  falling  water. 

A  great  lazy  bee  falls,  as  though  no  longer  able  to  sus- 
tain its  mighty  frame,  right  into  Miss  Massereene's  lap, 
and  lies  there  humming.  With  a  little  start  she  shakes  it 
off,  almost  fearing  to  touch  it  with  her  dainty  rose-white 
fingers. 

Thus  rudely  roused,  she  speaks : 

"Are  you  asleep?"  she  asks,  not  turning  her  head  ta^ 
her  companion's  direction. 

"No/  coldly;  "aroyou?" 

"  Yes,  almost,  and  dreaming."  v 


72  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

"  Dreams  are  the  children  of  an  idle  brain/*  q&jtes  he5 
somewhat  maliciously. 

"Yes?"  sweetly.  ''And  so  you  really  have  read  your 
Shakespeare?  And  can  actually  apply  it  every  now  and 
then  with  effect,  to  the  utter  confusion  of  your  friends? 
But  I  think  you  might  have  spared  me.  Teddy !  "  bend- 
ing forward  and  casting  upon  him  a  bewitching,  torment- 
ing, adorable  glance  from  under  her  dark  lashes,  "  if  you 
bite  your  moustache  any  harder  it  will  come  off,  and  then 
what  will  become  of  me?  " 

With  a  laugh  Luttrell  flings  away  the  fern  he  has  been 
reducing  to  ruin,  and  rising,  throws  himself  upon  the 
grass  at  her  feet. 

"  Why  don't  I  hate  you  ?  "  he  says,  vehemently.  "  Why 
cannot  I  feel  even  decently  angry  with  you  ?  You  torment 
and  charm  in  the  same  breath.  At  times  I  say  to  myself, 
'  She  is  cold,  heartless,  unfeeling,'  and  then  a  word,  a  look 
— Molly,"  seizing  her  cool,  slim  little  hand  as  it  lies  pas- 
sive in  her  lap,  "  tell  me,  do  you  think  you  will  ever — I  do 
not  mean  to-morrow,  or  in  a  week,  or  a  month,  but  in  all 
the  long  years  to  come,  do  you  think  you  will  ever  love 
me?"  As  he  finishes  speaking,  he  presses  his  lips  with 
passionate  tenderness  to  her  hand. 

"Now,  who  gave  you  leave  to  do  that?"  asks  Molly, 
Apropos  of  the  kissing. 

" Never  mind:  answer  me." 

"But  I  do  mind  very  much  indeed.  I  mind  dread- 
fully." 

"  Well,  then,  I  apologize,  and  I  am  very  sorry,  and  I 
won't  do  it  again:  is  that  enough?  " 

"  No,  the  fact  still  remains,"  gazing  at  her  hand  with  a 
little  pout,  as  though  the  offending  kiss  were  distinctly 
visible;  " and  I  don't  want  it." 

"  But  what  can  be  done?  " 

"I  think — you  had  better — take  it  back  again,"  says 
she,  the  pretended  pout  dissolving  into  an  irresistible 
smile,  as  she  slips  her  fingers  with  a  sudden  unexpected 
movement  into  his ;  after  which  she  breaks  into  a  merry 
laugh." 

And  now  tell  me,"  he  persists,  holding  them  close 
prisoners,  and  bestowing  a  loving  caress  upon  each  sepa- 
ratelv. 

''  Whether  I  love  you?  How  onn  I.  when  I  don't  know 
myself  ?  Perhaps  atjthe  en£  j^  ^av  to  sore,  When  I  lie 


MOLL  V  BA  WW.  ?$ 

a-dying  you  must  come  to  me,  and  bend  over  me,  and  say, 
k  Molly  Sawn,  do  you  love  me? '  And  I  shall  whisper  back 
with  my  last  breath,  'yes '  or  'no/  as  the  case  may  be." 

"  Don't  talk  of  dying,"  he  says,  with  a  shudder,  tight- 
ening his  clasp. 

"  Why  not?  as  we  must  die." 

"  But  not  now,  not  while  we  are  young  and  happy.  Af- 
terward, when  old  age  creeps  on  us  and  we  look  on  love  as 
weariness,  it  will  not  matter." 

"  To  me,  that  is  the  horror  of  it,"  with  a  quick  distaste- 
ful shiver,  leaning  forward  in  her  earnestness,  ' '  to  feel 
that  sooner  or  later  there  will  be  no  hope ;  that  we  must 
go,  whether  with  or  without  our  own  will, — and  it  is  neve* 
with  it,  is  it?" 

"  Never,  I  suppose." 

"  It  does  not  frighten  me  so  much  to  think  that  in  a 
month,  or  perhaps  next  year,  or  at  any  moment,  I  may  die, 
— there  is  a  blessed  uncertainty  about  that, — but  to  know 
that,  no  matter  how  long  I  linger,  the  time  will  surely  come 
when  no  prayers,  no  entreaties,  will  avail.  They  say  of 
one  who  has  cheated  death  for  seventy  years,  that  he  has 
had  a  good  long  life :  taking  that,  then,  as  an  average,  I 
have  just  fifty -one  years  to  live,  only  half  that  to  enjoy. 
Next  year  it  will  be  fifty,  then  forty-nine,  and  so  on  until 
it  comes  down  to  one.  What  shall  I  do  then?  " 

"My  own  darling,  how  fanciful  you  are!  your  hands 
have  grown  cold  as  ice.  Probably  when  you  are  seventy 
you  will  consider  yourself  a  still  fascinating  person  of  mid- 
dle age,  and  look  upon  these  thoughts  of  to-day  as  the 
sickly  fancies  of  an  infant.  Do  not  let  us  talk  about  it  any 
more.  Your  face  is  white." 

"Yes,"  says  Molly,  recovering  herself  with  a  sigh,  "it 
is  the  one  thing  that  horrifies  me.  John  is  religious,  so  is 
Letty,  while  I — oh,  that  I  could  find  pleasure  in  it !  You 
see,"  speaking  after  a  slight  pause,  with  a  smile,  "  I  am  at 
heart  a  rebel,  and  hate  to  obey.  Mind  you  never  give  me 
an  order !  How  good  it  would  be  to  be  young,  and  gay, 
and  full  of  easy  laughter,  always, — to  have  lovers  at  com- 
mand, to  have  some  one  at  my  feet  forever!  " 

"  '  Some  one/  "  sadly.  "  Would  any  one  do?  Oh,  Molly, 
oan  you  not  be  satisfied  with  me?  " 

"How  can  I  be  sure?  At  present — yes,"  running  her 
fingers  lightly  down  the  earnest,  handsome  face  upraised 
to  hers,  apparently  quite  forgetful  of  her  late  emotion,. 


~  OtilLT  SAWN. 

"  Well,  at  all  events."  says  the  young  man,  with  the  air 
oi  one  who  is  determined  to  make  the  test  of  a  bad  bar- 
gain, "  there  is  no  man  you  like  better  than  me." 

"At  present,— no,"  says  the  incorrigible  Molly. 

"  You  are  the  greatest  flirt  I  ever  met  in  my  life,  ex- 
claims he,  with  sudden  anger. 

"Who?    I?" 

"  Yes, — you,"  vehemently. 

A  pause.  They  are  much  farther  apart  by  this  time, 
and  are  looking  anywhere  but  at  each  other.  Molly  has 
her  lap  full  of  daisies,  and  is  stringing  them  into  a  chain 
in  rather  an  absent  fashion;  while  Luttrell,  who  is  too 
angry  to  pretend  indifference,  is  sitting  with  gloom  on  his 
brow  and  a  straw  in  his  mouth,  which  latter  he  is  biting 
vindictively. 

"  I  don't  believe  I  quite  understand  you,"  says  Molly  at 
length. 

"  Do  you  not?  I  cannot  remember  saying  anything  very 
difficult  of  comprehension." 

"  I  must  be  growing  stupid,  then.  You  have  accused  me 
of  flirting ;  and  how  am  I  to  understand  that,  I  who  never 
flirted?  How  should  I?  I  would  not  know  how." 

"  You  must  allow  me  to  differ  with  you ;  or,  at  all  events, 
let  me  say  your  imitation  of  it  is  highly  successful." 

"  But,"  with  anxious  hesitation,  "  what  is  flirting?  " 

"  Pshaw!  "  wrathf  ully,  "  have  you  been  waiting  for  me 
to  tell  you?  It  is  trying  to  make  a  fool  of  a  fellow, 
neither  more  nor  less.  You  are  pretending  to  love  me, 
when  you  know  in  your  heart  you  don't  care  that  for  me." 
The  "  that  "  is  both  forcible  and  expressive,  and  has  refer- 
ence to  an  indignant  sound  made  by  his  thumb  and  his 
second  finger. 

"  I  was  not  aware  that  I  ever  '  pretended  to  love '  you," 
replies  Molly,  in  a  tone  that  makes  him  wince. 

"  Well,  let  us  say  no  more  about  it,"  cries  he,  springing 
to  his  feet,  as  though  unable  longer  to  endure  his  enforced 
quietude.  "  If  you  don't  care  for  me,  you  don't,  you 
know,  and  that  is  all  about  it.  I  dare  say  I  shall  get  over 
it ;  and  if  not,  why,  I  shall  not  be  the  only  man  in  the 
world  made  miserable  for  a  woman's  amusement." 

Molly  has  also  risen,  and,  with  her  long  daisy  chain 
hanging  from  both  her  hands,  is  looking  a  perfect  picture  of 
injured  innocence :  although  in  truth  she  is  honestly  sorry 
for  her  cruel 


MOLL  y  BA  WN.  ft 

"I  don't  believe  you  know  how  unkind  you  are/'  she 
says,  with  a  suspicion  of  tears  in  her  voice,  whether 
feigned  or  real  he  hardly  dares  conjecture.  Feeling  her- 
self in  the  wrong,  she  seeks  meanly  to  free  herself  from  the 
false  position  by  placing  him  there  in  her  stead. 

"  Do  not  let  us  speak  about  unkindness,  or  anything 
else,"  says  the  young  man,  impatiently.  "  Of  what  use  is 
it?  It  is  the  same  thing  always:  I  am  obnoxious  to  you; 
we  cannot  put  together  two  sentences  without  coming  to 
open  war. 

"  But  whose  fault  was  it  this  time?  Think  of  what  you 
accuse  me !  I  did  not  believe  you  could  be  so  rude  to  me !  " 
with  reproachful  emphasis. 

Here  she  directs  a  slow  lingering  glance  at  him  from  her 
violet  eyes.  There  are  visible  signs  of  relenting  about  her 
companion.  He  colors,  and  persistently  refuses,  after  th« 
first  involuntary  glance,  to  allow  his  gaze  to  meet  hers 
again;  which  is,  of  all  others,  the  surest  symptom  of  a 
coming  rout.  There  are  some  eyes  that  can  do  almost  any- 
thing with  a  man.  Molly's  eyes  are  of  this  order.  They 
are  her  strongest  point ;  and  were  they  her  sole  charm,  were 
she  deaf  and  dumb,  I  believe  it  would,  be  possible  to  her,  by 
the  power  of  their  expressive  beauty  alone,  to  draw  most 
hearts  into  her  keeping. 

"Did  you  mean  what  you  said  just  now,  that  you  had 
fco  love  for  me?"  he  asks,  with  a  last  vain  effort  to  be 
stern  and  unforgiving.  "Am  I  to  believe  that  I  am  no 
more  to  you  than  any  other  man?  " 

"  Believe  nothing,"  murmurs  she,  coming  nearer  to  lay 
a,  timid  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  raising  her  face  to  hie, 
"  except  this,  that  I  am  your  own  Molly." 

"  Are  you?"  cries  he,  in  a  subdued  tone,  straining  her 
to  his  heart,  and  speaking  with  an  emotional  indrawing  of 
the  breath  that  betrays  more  than  his  words  how  deeply  he 
is  feeling,  "my  very  own?  Nay,  more  than  that,  Molly, 
you  are  my  all,  my  world,  my  life :  if  erer  you  forget  me, 
or  give  me  up  for  another,  you  will  kill  me:  remember 
that." 

"  I  will  remember  it.  I  will  never  do  it,"  repliee  she, 
soothingly,  the  touch  of  motherhood  that  is  in  all  good 
women  coming  to  the  front  as  she  sees  his  agitation. 
"  Why  should  I,  when  you  are  such  a  dear  old  boy?  Now 
come  and  sit  down  again,  and  be  reasonable.  Siee,  I  will 
tie  you  up  with  my  flowery  chain  as  punishment  for  your 


76  MOLL  r  BA  Wtf. 

behavior,  and  "  —  with  a  demure  smile  —  "  the  kiss  you  stole 
in  the  meUe  without  my  permission." 

"  This  is  the  chain  by  which  I  hold  you/'  he  says.  ratfeei 
sadly,  surveying  his  wrists,  round  which  the  daisies  oling. 
"  The  links  that  bind  me  to  you  are  made  of  sterne-r  gtutf. 
Sweetheart,"  turning  his  handsome,  singularly  youthful 
face  to  hers,  and  speaking  with  an  entreaty  that  savor* 
strongly  of  despair,  ''  do  not  let  your  beauty  be  my  curse  !  " 

"  Why,  who  is  fanciful  now?  "  says  Molly,  making  a 
little  grimace  at  him.  "And  truly/  to  hear  you  speak, 
one  must  believe  love  is  blind.  IB  it  Venue,"  saucily,  "  or 
Helen  of  Troy,  I  most  closely  resemble?  or  am  I  'some- 
thing more  exquisite  still  '?  It  puzzles  me  why  you  should 
think  so  very  highly  of  my  personal  charms.  Ted/'  lean- 
ing forward  to  look  into  her  lover's  eyes,  "tell  me  this. 
Have  you  been  much  away?  Abroad,  I  mean,  on  the  Con- 
tinent and  that?" 

"  Well,  yes,  pretty  much  so." 

"  Have  you  been  to  Paris?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  several  times." 

'  Brussels?  " 
:Yee." 
1  Vienna?" 

No.     I  wait  to  go  there  with  you." 
Rome?" 

''Yes,  twice.  The  governor  was  fond  of  sending  us 
abroad  between  the  ages  of  seventeen  and  twenty-five,  _  to 
enlarge  our  minds,  he  said  ;  to  get  rid  of  us,  he  meant." 

"  Are  there  many  of  you?  " 

"  An  awful  lot.  I  would  be  ashamed  to  say  how  many 
Ours  was  indeed  a  '  numerous  father.'  " 

"  He  isn't  dead?  "  asks  Molly,  in  a  low  tone  befitting 
the^  occasion  in  case  he  should  be. 

"Oh  no:  he  is  alive  and  kicking,"  replies  Mr.  Luttrell, 
with  more  force  than  elegance.  "  And  I  hope  he  will  keep 
on  so  for  years  to  come.  He  is  about  the  best  friend  I 
nave,  or  am  likely  to  have." 

"I  hope  he  won't  keep  up  the  kicking  part  of  it,"  says 
i  a  delicious  laugh  that  ripples  through  the  air 
"      ey™nt  of  her  own  wiC    Not  to 


lau  v  IT  o 

when  Molly  laughs,  is  impossible;  so  Luttrell  joins 

the  wol      I  bfot™e  raerry  over  his  vulgarity.     In  all 
Id   what  is  there  sweeter  than  the  happy,  penetrat- 
lug,  satisfying  laughter  of  unhurt  youth9 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  77 

"  Lucky  you,  to  have  seen  so  much  already/'  says  Molly, 
presently,  with  an  envious  sigh;  "and  yet/'  with  a  view 
to  self -support,  "what  good  has  it  done  you?  Not  one 
atom.  After  all  your  traveling  you  can  do  nothing  greater 
than  fall  absurdly  in  love  with  a  village  maiden.  Will  your 
father  call  that  enlarging  your  mind?  " 

"I  hope  so,"  concealing  his  misgivings  on  the  point. 
"  But  why  put  it  so  badly?  Instead  of  village  maiden,  say 
the  loveliest  girl  I  ever  met." 

"  What!  "  cries  Molly,  the  most  nai've  delight  and  satis- 
faction animating  her  tone;  "after  going  through  France, 
Germany,  Italy,  and  India,  you  can  honestly  say  I  am  the 
loveliest  woman  you  ever  met?  " 

"  You  put  it  too  mildly,"  says  Luttrell,  raising  himself 
on  his  elbow  to  gaze  with  admiration  at  the  charming  face 
above  him,  "I  can  say  more.  You  are  ten  thousand 
times  the  loveliest  woman  I  ever  met." 

Molly  smiles,  nay,  more,  she  fairly  dimples.  Try  as  she 
will  and  does,  she  cannot  conceal  the  pleasure  it  gives  hea- 
to  hear  her  praises  sung. 

"  Why,  then  I  am  a  '  belle/  a  '  toast/  "  she  says,  endeav- 
oring unsuccessfully  to  see  her  image  in  the  little  basin  of 
water  that  has  gathered  at  the  foot  of  the  rocks;  "  while 
you,"  turning  to  run  five  white  fingers  over  his  hair  ca- 
ressingly, and  then  all  down  his  face,  ' '  you  are  the  most 
delightful  person  I  ever  met.  It  is  so  easy  to  believe  what 
you  tell  one,  and  so  pleasant.  I  have  half  a  mind  to — kiss 
you !  " 

"Don't  stop  there:  nave  a  whole  mind,"  says  Luttrell, 
eagerly.  "  Kiss  me  at  once,  before  the  fancy  evaporates." 

"  No,"  holding  him  back  with  one  lazy  finger  (he  is  easy 
to  be  repulsed),  "  on  second  thought  I  will  reserve  my  ca- 
ress. Some  other  time,  when  you  are  good, — perhaps.  By 
the  bye,  Ted,  did  you  really  mean  you  would  take  me  to 
Vienna?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  would  care  to  go  there." 

"Care?  that  is  not  the  question.  It  will  cost  a  great 
deal  of  money  to  get  there,  won't  it?  Shall  we  be  able  to 
afford  it?" 

"  No  doubt  the  governor  will  stand  to  me,  and  give  a 
check  for  the  occasion,"  says  Luttrell,  warming  to  the 
subject.  "  Anyhow,  you  shall  go,  if  you  wish  it. 

Wait  until  your  father  hears  you  have  wedded  a  paai- 
and  then  you  will  see  what  a  check  you  will  get," 


7g  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

eays  Mis*  Maesereene,  with  a  contemptible  attempt  at  a 
joke. 

"A  pun!  "  says  Luttrell,  springing  to  his  feefc  with  a 
groan ;  "  that  means  a  pinch.  So  prepare. " 

"  I  forbid  you,"  cries  she,  inwardly  quaking,  and,  rising 
hurriedly,  stands  well  away  from  him,  with  her  petticoats 
caught  together  in  one  hand  ready  for  flight.  "  I  won't 
allow  you.  Don't  attempt  to  touch  me." 

"It  is  the  law  of  the  land,"  declares  he,  advancing  on 
her,  while  she  aa  steadily  retreats. 

"Dear  Teddy,  good  Teddy,"  cries  she,  "spare  me  thi* 
time,  and  I  will  never  do  it  again — no,  not  though  it  should 
tremble  forever  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue.  As  you  are 
strong,  be  merciful.  Do  forgive  me  this  once.'1' 

"  Impossible." 

"  Then  I  defy  you,"  retorts  Miss  Massereene,  who,  hav- 
ing manoeuvred  until  she  has  placed  a  good  distance  be- 
tween herself  and  the  foe,  now  turns,  and  flies  through  the 
trees,  making  very  successful  running  for  the  open  beyond. 
Not  until  they  are  within  full  view  of  the  house  does  he 
manage  to  come  up  with  her.  And  then  the  pretence  of 
John  sunning  himself  on  the  hall-door  step,  surrounded  by 
his  family,  effectually  prevents  her  ever  obtaining  that 
richly-deserved  punishment. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"After  long  years." 

IT  is  raining,  not  only  raining,  but  pouring.  All  the 
gracious  sunshine  of  yesterday  is  obliterated,  forgotten, 
while  in  its  place  the  sullen  raindrops  dash  themselves  with 
suppressed  fury  against  the  window-panes.  Huge  drops 
they  are,  swollen  with  the  hidden  rage  of  many  days,  that 
fall,  and  burst  heavily,  and  make  the  casements  trem- 
ble. 

Outside,  the  flowers  droop  and  hang  their  pretty  heads  in 
Bftd  wonder  at  this  undeserved  Nemesis  that  has  overtaken 
them.  Along  the  sides  of  the  graveled  paths  small  rivu- 
lets run  frightened.  There  is  no  song  of  birds  in  all  the 
the  young  short  graaa  upreaxi  itaalf,  and,  <iriai> 


MOLLY  BAWN.  79 

Lag  in  with  eager  greediness  the  welcome  but  angry  shower, 
refuses  to  bend  its  neck  beneath  the  voke. 

"How  I  hate  a  wet  day  I  "  says  Luttrell,  moodily,  fof 
the  twentieth  time,  staring  blankly  out  of  tne  deserted 
echool-room  window,  where  he  and  Molly  have  been  yawn- 
ing, moping  for  the  last  half -hour. 

Do  you?  I  love  it,"  replies  she,  out  of  a  sheer  spirit 
of  contradiction ;  as,  if  there  is  one  thing  she  utterly  abhors 
it  is  the  idea  of  rain. 

"If  I  said  I  loved  it,  you  would  say  the  reverse,"  sayg 
he,  laughing,  not  feeling  equal  to  the  excitement  of  a 
quarrel. 

"Without  doubt,"  replies  she,  laughing  too:  so  that  a 
very  successful  opening  is  rashly  neglected.  "  Surely  it 
cannot  keep  on  like  this  all  day,"  she  says,  presently,  in  a 
dismal  tone,  betraying  by  her  manner  the  falsity  of  her 
former  admiration:  "  we  shall  have  a  dry  winter  if  it  con- 
tinues much  longer.  Has  any  wise  man  yet  discovered  how 
much  rain  the  clouds  are  capable  <"i  containing  at  one  time? 
It  would  be  such  a  blessing  if  they  had :  then  we  might 
know  the  worst,  and  make  up  our  minds  to  it." 

"  Drop  a  line  to  the  clerk  of  the  weather  office ;  he  might 
make  it  his  business  to  find  out  if  you  asked  him." 

"Is  that  a  joke?"  with  languid  disgust.  "And  you 
professed  yourself  indignant  with  me  yesterday  when  I  per- 
petrated a  really  superior  one !  You  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself.  I  would  not  condescend  to  anything  so  fee- 
ble." 

"  That  reminds  me  I  have  never  yet  paid  you  off  for  that 
misdemeanor.  Now,  when  time  is  hanging  so  heavily  on 
my  hands,  is  a  most  favorable  opportunity  to  pay  the  debt. 
I  embrace  it.  And  you  too.  So  '  prepare  for  cavalry.' ' 

"  A  fig  for  all  th«  hussars  in  Europe,"  cries  Molly,  with 
indomitable  courage. 


Meantime,  Letitia  and  John  in  the  morning  room — that 
in  a  grander  house  would  have  been  designated  a  boudoir 
— are  holding  a  hot  discussion. 

Lovat,  the  eldest  son,  being  the  handsomest  and  by  far 
the  most  scampish  of  the  children,  is  of  course  hi« 
mother's  idol.  His  master,  however,  having  written  to  say 
that  up  to  this,  in  spite  of  all  the  trouble  that  has  been 
token  with  him,  he  has  evinced  a  far  greater  disposition 


g<j  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

for  cricket  and  punching  his  companions'  heads  than  for 
his  Greek  and  Latin,  Lovat's  father  had  given  it  as  kid 
opinion  that  Lovat  deserves  a  right  good  flogging ;  while 
Lovat's  mother  maintains  that  all  noble,  high-spirited  boys 
are  ''just  like  that,"  and  asks  Mr.  Massereene,  with  the 
air  of  a  Q.  C.,  whether  he  never  felt  a  distaste  for  the  dead 
languages. 

Mr.  Massereene  replying  that  he  never  did,  that  he  was 
always  a  model  boy,  and  never  anywhere  but  at  the  head  of 
his  class,  his  wife  instantly  declares  she  doesn't  believe  n 
word  of  it,  and  moat  unfairly  rakes  up  a  dead-and-gone 
story,  in  which  Mr.  Massereene  figures  as  the  principal 
feature,  and  is  discovered  during  school  hours  on  the  top 
of  a  neighbor's  apple-tree,  with  a  long-suffering  but  irate 
usher  at  the  foot  of  it,  armed  with  his  indignation  and  a 
birch  rod. 

"  And  for  three  mortal  hours  he  stood  there,  while  I  sat 
ap  aloft  grinning  at  him,"  says  Mr.  Massereene.  with  (con- 
sidering his  years)  a  disgraceful  appreciation  of  his  past 
immoral  conduct;  " and  when  at  last  the  gardener  was  in- 
duced to  mount  the  tree  and  drag  me  ignominiously  to  the 
ground,  I  got  such  a  flogging  as  made  a  chair  for  some 
time  assume  the  character  of  a  rack." 

''  And  you  deserved  it,  too,"  says  Letitia,  with  un- 
wonted severity. 

"I  did,  indeed,  my  dear,"  John  confesses,  heartily, 
"  richly.  I  am  glad  to  see  that  at  last  you  begin  to  take 
a  sensible  view  of  the  subject.  If  I  deserved  a  flogging  be- 
cause I  once  shirked  my  tasks,  what  does  not  Lovat  deserve 
for  a  long  course  of  such  conduct?  " 

"He  is  not  accused  of  stealing  apples,  at  all  events; 
and,  besides,  Lovat  is  quite  different,"  says  Letitia, 
vaguely.  Whereupon  John  tells  her  her  heart  is  running 
away  with  her  head,  and  that  her  partiality  is  so  apparent 
that  he  must  cease  from  further  argument,  and  goes  on 
with  his  reading. 

Presently,  however,  he  rises,  and,  crossing  the  room, 
stands  over  her,  watching  her  white  shapely  fingers  as  they 

ftly  fill  up  the  holes  in  the  little  socks"^  that  lie  in  the 
basket  beside  her.  She  is  so  far  en  rapport  with  him  as  to 

low  that  his  manner  betokens  a  desire  for  confidence. 

'Have  you  anything  to  say  to  me,   dear?"  she  asks, 
up  and  suspending  her  employment  for  the  time 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  gf. 

"  Letitia,"  begins  he,  thoughtfully,  not  to  say  solemnly,- 
"it  is  quite  two  months  since  Luttrell  first  put  in  an  tip-- 
pearance  in  this  house.  Now,  I  don't  wish  to  seem  inhos- 
pitable,— far  be  it  from  me :  a  thirst  for  knowledge  alone 
induces  me  to  put  the  question, — but,  do  you  think  he 
means  to  reside  here  permanently?  " 

"It  is  certainly  very  strange,"  says  Letitia,  unmoved  by 
Ms  eloquence  to  even  the  faintest  glimmer  of  a  smile,  so 
deep  is  her  interest  in  the  subject, — "the  very  oddest 
thing.  If,  now,  it  were  a  place  where  a  young  man  could 
find  any  amusement,  I  would  say  nothing;  but  here!  Do 
you  know,  John, — mysteriously, — "  I  have  my  suspicions." 

"No!  "  exclaims  Mr.  Massereene,  betraying  the  wildest 
curiosity  in  voice  and  gesture, — so  wild  as  to  hint  at  the 
possibility  of  its  not  being  genuine.  "You  don't  say 
so!  " 

"  It  has  once  or  twice  occurred  to  me " 

"Yes?" 

"  I  have  certainly  thought " 

"  Letitia," — with  authority, — "  don't  think,  or  guspeot, 
or  let  it  occur  to  you  any  more :  say  it." 

"  Well,  then,  I  think  he  is  in  love  with  Molly." 

John  breaks  into  a  heavy  laugh. 

^What  it  is  to  be  a  woman  of  penetration,"  says  he. 
"  So  you  have  found  that  out.  Now,  that  is  where  we  men 
fail.  But  are  you  certain?  Why  do  you  think  it?  " 

"  I  am  almost  convinced  of  it,"  Letitia  says,  with  much 
solemnity.  ''  Last  night  I  happened  to  be  looking  out  of 
one  of  the  windows  that  overhang  the  garden,  and  there  in 
the  moonlight  (it  was  quite  ten  o'clock)  I  saw  Molly  give 
him  a  red  rose ;  and  he  took  it,  and  gazed  at  it  as  though 
he  were  going  to  devour  it ;  and  then  he  kissed  it ;  and  after 
that  he  kissed  Molly's  hand !  Now,  I  don't  think,  John, 
unless  a  young  man  was — you  know — eh?  " 

"  I  altogether  agree  with  you.  Unless  a  young  man  was, 
you  know,  why,  he  wouldn't — that's  all.  I  am  glad,  how- 
ever, he  had  the  grace  to  stop  at  the  hand, — that  it  was  not 
Molly's  lips  he  chose  instead." 

"  My  dear  John !  " 

"  My  darling  Letty !  have  I  said  anything  so  very  entire? 
Were  you  never  kissed  by  a  young  man?  " 

"  Only  by  you,"  returns  Mrs.  Massereene,  laughing  apol- 
ogetically, and  blushing  a  rare  delicate  pink  that  would 
uot  have  disgraced  her  at  eighteen. 


^  JOLLY  BAWN. 

"Ah,  you  may  well  be  excused,  considering  now  yon 
were  tempted.  It  is  not  every  day  one  meets- —  By  the 
bye,  Letty,  did  you  cease  your  eavesdropping  at  that 
point?  " 

"  Yes;  I  did  not  like  to  remain  longer." 

"  Then  depend  upon  \t,  my  dear,  you  did  not  see  the  last 
act  in  that  drama." 

"  You  surely  do  not  think  Molly " 

"  I  seldom  trouble  to  think.  I  only  know  Luttrell  is  an 
uncommonly  good-looking  fellow,  and  that  the  moon  is  a 
white  witch." 

"He  is  good-looking,"  says  Letitia,  rising  and  growing 
troubled;  " he  is  more  than  that, — he  is  charming.  Oh, 
John !  if  our  Molly  were  to  fall  in  love  with  him,  and  grow 
unhappy  about  it,  what  would  we  do?  I  don't  believe  he 
has  anything  beyond  his  pay." 

"  He  has  something  more  than  that,  I  know,  but  not 
much.  The  Luttrells  have  a  good  deal  of  spare  cash  throw- 
ing about  among  them." 

"  But  what  of  that?  And  a  poor  man  would  be  wretched 
for  Molly.  Eemember  what  an  expensive  regiment  he  is 
in.  Why,  I  suppose  as  it  is  he  can  hardly  keep  himself. 
And  how  would  it  be  with  a  wife  and  a  large  family?  " 

"Oh,  Letitia!  let  us  have  the  marriage  ceremony  first. 
Why  on  earth  will  you  saddle  the  miserable  man  with  a 
large  family  so  soon?  And  wouldn't  a  small  one  do?  Of 
what  use  to  pile  up  the  agony  to  such  a  height?  " 

"  I  think  of  no  one  but  Molly.  There  is  nothing  so  ter- 
rible as  a  long  engagement,  and  that  is  what  it  will  come 
to.  Do  you  remember  Sarah  Annesley?  She  grew  thinner 
and  thinner  day  by  day,  and  her  complexion  became  posi- 
tively yellow  when  Perceval  went  away.  And  her  mother 
said  it  was  suspense  preying  upon  her." 

"  So  they  said,  my  dear;  but  we  all  Tcnow  it  was  indiges- 
tion." 

"  John,"— austerely,— "  what  is  the  exact  amount  of  Mr. 
LuttrelPs  income?  " 

"  About  six  hundred  a  year,  I  think." 

"As  much  as  that?"  Slightly  relieved.  "  And  will  his 
father  allow  him  anything  more?  " 

"  Unless  you  insist  upon  my  writing  to  Sir  William,  I 
could  not  tell  you  that." 

"  Six  hundred  a  year  is  far  too  little." 

"  It  is  almost  as  much  as  we  have." 


MOLL  T  BA  Wff.  <<j 

*"  j-jut  you  are  not  in  the  army,  and  you  are  not  a  fash- 
ionable young  man." 

"  If  you  say  that  again  I  shall  sue  for  a  divorce.  But 
seriously,  Letty,  perhaps  you  are  exciting  yourself  about 
nothing.  Who  knows  but  they  are  indifferent  to  each 
ether?  " 

"  I  fear  they  are  not.  And  I  will  not  have  poor  Molly 
made  unhappy." 

"  Why  not  '  poor  LuttrelP  ?  It  is  far  more  likely  as  1 
see  it." 

"I  don't  want  any  one  to  be  unhappy.  And  something 
must  be  done." 

"Exactly."  After  a  pause,  with  ill-conoealed  coward- 
ice: "Will  you  do  it?" 

"Do  what?" 

"  That  awful  '  something '  that  is  to  be  done." 

"  Certainly  not.  It  is  your  duty  to — to — find  out  every- 
thing, and  ask  them  both  what  they  mean." 

"Then  I  won't,"  declares  John,  throwing  out  his  arms 
decisively.  "  I  would  not  be  bribed  to  do  it.  What!  ask  a 
man  his  intentions !  I  couldn't  bring  myself  to  do  such  a 
thing.  How  could  I  look  him  in  the  face  again?  They 
must  fight  the  best  battle  they  can  for  themselves,  like 
every  one  else.  I  won't  interfere." 

"Very  good.  I  shall  speak  to  Molly.  And  I  really  think 
we  ought  to  go  and  look  them  up.  I  have  seen  neither  of 
them  since  breakfast  time." 

"The  rain  has  ceased.  Let  us  go  out  by  the  balcony," 
says  Mr.  Massereene,  stepping  through  the  open  window. 
"  I  heard  them  in  the  school-room  as  I  passed." 

Now,  this  balcony,  as  I  have  told  you,  runs  along  all  one 
side  of  the  house,  and  on  it  the  drawing-room,  school- 
room, and  one  of  the  parlor  windows  open.  Thick  cur- 
tains hang  from  them  and  conceal  in  part  the  outer  world ; 
so  that  when  John  and  Letty  stand  before  the  school-room 
window  to  look  in  they  do  so  without  being  themselves 
seen.  And  this,  I  regret  to  say,  is  what  they  see : 

In  the  centre  of  the  room  a  square  table,  and  flying 
round  and  round  it,  with  the  tail  of  her  white  gown  twisted 
over  her  right  arm,  is  Miss  Massereene,  with  Mr.  Luttrell 
in  full  chase  after  her. 

"  Well,  upon  my  word !  "  says  Mr.  Massereene,  unable 
through  bewilderment  to  think  of  any  remark  more  brill- 
iant. 


^  MOLL  Y  BA  WK. 

Round  and  round  goes  Molly,  round  and  round  follows 
her  pursuer;  until  Luttrell,  finding  his  prey  to  be  quite  as 
fle«t  if  not  fleeter  than  himself,  resorts  to  a  mean  expe- 
dient, and,  catching  hold  of  one  side  of  the  table,  pushes 
it,  and  Molly  behind  it,  slowly  but  surely  into  the  opposite 
corner. 

There  is  no  hope.  Steadily,  certainly,  she  approaches 
her  doom,  and  with  flushed  cheeks  and  eyes  gleaming  with 
laughter,  makes  a  vain  protest. 

"  Now  I  have  you,"  says  Luttrell,  drawing  an  elaborate 
penknife  from  his  pocket,  in  which  all  the  tools  that 
usually  go  to  adorn  a  carpenter's  shop  fight  for  room. 
"  Prepare  for  death,  or — I  give  you  your  choice:  I  shall 
either  cut  your  jugular  vein  or  kiss  you.  Don't  hurry. 
Say  which  you  prefer.  It  is  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me. " 

"  Cut  every  vein  in  my  body  first,"  cries  Molly,  breath- 
less but  defiant. 

""  Letitia,"  whispers  John,  "  I  feel  I  am  going  to  laugh. 

iatshallldo?" 

"  Don't,"  says  Letitia,  with  stern  promptitude.  "  That 
is  what  you  will  do.  It  is  no  laughing  matter.  I  hope  you 
are  not  going  to  make  a  jest  of  it,  John." 

"  But,  my  dear,  supposing  I  can't  help  it?  "  suggests  he, 
mildly.  "  Our  risible  faculties  are  not  always  under  our 
control." 

"  On  an  occasion  such  as  this  they  should  be." 

"Letitia,"  says  Mr.  Massereene,  regarding  her  with  se- 
verity, "  you  are  going  to  laugh  yourself;  don't  deny  it." 

"  No, — no,  indeed,"  protests  Letitia,  foolishly,  consider- 
ing her  handsome  face  ia  one  broad  smile,  and  that  her 
plump  shoulders  are  visibly  shaking.  ] 

"  It  is  mean !  it  is  shameful !  "  says  Molly,  from  within, 
seeing  no  chance  of  escape.  Whichever  way  she  rushes  can 
be  only  into  his  arms. 

"All  that  you  can  say  shan't  prevent  me,"  decides  Lut- 
trell, moving  toward  her  with  fell  determination  in  his  eye. 

"Perhaps  a  little  that  I  can  say  may  have  the  desired 
effect,"  breaks  in  Mr.  Massereene,  advancing  into  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room,  with  Letitia,  looking  rather  nervous,  be- 
hind him. 

Tableau. 

There  is  a  sudden,  rather  undignified,  cessation  of  hos- 
tilities on  the  part  of  Mr.  Luttrell,  who  beats  a  hasty  re- 
treat to  the  wall,  where  he  stands  ae  though  glad  of  the 


MOLLY  BAWN.  85 

support.  He  bears  a  sneaky  rather  than  a  distinguished 
appearance,  and  altogether  has  the  grace  to  betray  a  con- 
siderable amount  of  shame. 

Molly,  dropping  her  gown,  turns  a  rich  crimson,  but  iB; 
I  need  hardly  say,  by  far  the  least  upset  of  the  two  delin- 
quents. She  remains  where  she  is,  hedged  in  by  the  table,, 
and  is  conscious  of  feeling  a  wild  desire  to  laugh. 

Determined  to  break  the  silence,  which  is  proving  op 
pressive,  she  says,  demurely: 

"  How  fortunate,  John,  that  you  happened  to  be  on  the 
spot !  Mr.  Luttrell  was  behaving  so  badly !  " 

"  I  don't  need  to  be  told  that." 

"But  how  did  you  come  here?"  asks  Molly,  making  a 
brave  but  unsuccessful  effort  to  turn  the  tables  upon  the 
enemy.  "And  Letitia,  too!  I  do  hate  people  who  turn 
up  when  they  are  least  expected.  What  were  you  doing 
on  the  balcony?  " 

"Watching  you — and — your  friend,"  says  John,  very 
gravely  for  him.  He  addresses  himself  entirely  to  Molly, 
her  "friend  "  being  in  the  last  stage  of  confusion  and  ut- 
terly incapable  of  speech.  At  this,  however,  he  can  sup- 
port the  situation  no  longer,  and,  coming  forward,  says 
eagerly: 

"John,  let  me  explain.  The  fact  is,  I  asked  Miss  Mas- 
seree'ie  to  marry  me,  a  little  time  ago,  and  she  has  prom- 
ised to  do  so — if  you—don't  object."  After  this  bit  of 
eloquence  he  draws  himself  up,  with  a  little  shake,  ai 
though  he  had  rid  himself  of  something  disagreeable,  and 
becomes  once  more  his  usual  self. 

Letitia  puts  on  a  "didn't  I  tell  you?"  sort  of  air,  and 
John  says: 

"  Is  that  so?  "  looking  at  Molly  for  confirmation. 

"Yes,  if  it  is  your  wish,"  cries  she,  forsaking  her  re- 
treat, and  coming  forward  to  lay  her  hand  upon  hei 
brother's  arm  entreatingly,  and  with  a  gesture  full  of  ten- 
derness. "  But  if  you  do  object,  if  it  vexes  you  in  the  very 

slightest  degree,  John,  I " 

But  you  will  give  your  consent,  Massereene,"  inter- 
rupts her  lover,  hastily,  as  though  dreading  the  remainder 
of  the  sentence,  "  won't  you?  "  He  too  has  come  close  up 
to  John,  and  stands  on  one  side,  opposite  Molly.  Almost, 
from  the  troubled  expression  of  his  face  as  he  looks  at  the 
girl,  one  might  imagine  him  trying  to  combat  her  apparent 
iukewarmness  more  then  her  brother's 


S6 


MOLL  y  BA  WN. 


"  Things  eeem  to  have  progressed  very  favorably  without 
my  consent,"  says  John,  glancing  at  the  unlucky  table, 
trhich  has  come  in  for  a  most  unfair  share  of  the  blame. 
*  But  before  giving  you  my  blessing  I  acknowledge — now 
we  are  on  the  subject— I  would  like  to  know  on  wiiat  sum 
you  intend  setting  up  housekeeping."  Here  Letitia,  who 
has  preserved  a  strict  neutrality  throughout,  comes  mora 
to  the  front.  "It  is  inconvenient,  and  anything  but  ro- 
mantic, I  know,  but  people  must  eat,  and  those  who  in- 
dulge in  violent  exercise  are  generally  possessed  of  healthy 
appetites." 

"  I  have  over  five  hundred  a  year,"  says  Luttrell,  color- 
ing, and  feeling  as  if  he  had  said  fifty  and  was  going  to  be 
called  presumptuous.  He  also  feels  that  John  has  by  some 
sudden  means  become  very  many  years  older  than  ho 
really  is. 

"  That  includes  everything?  " 

"Everything.     When  my  uncle — Maxwell    Luttrell — 
Hops  the — that  is,  drops  off — I  mean  dies,"  says  Luttrell 
whose  slang  is  extensive  and  rather  confusing,  ' '  I  shall 
come  in  for  five  thousand  pounds  more." 

"  How  can  you  speak  in  such  a  cold-blooded  way  of  jour 
ancle's  death?  "  says  Molly,  who  is  not  so  much  in) pressed. 
6y  the  occasion  as  she  should  be. 

"Why  not?  There  is  no  love  lost  between  us.  If  he 
•ould  leave  it  away  from  me  he  would;  but  that  is  out  of 
iris  power." 

"That  makes  it  seven  hundred,"  says  Letitia,  softly, 
Apropos  of  the  income. 

''  Nearer  eight,"  says  he,  brightening  at  her  tone. 

"  Molly,  you  wish  to  marry  Tedcastle?  "  Joka.  asks  his 
sister,  gazing  at  her  earnestly. 

'Ye — es;  but  I'm  not  in  a  hurry,  you  know."  repliafi 
she,  with  a  little  nod. 

Massereene  regards  her  curiously  for  a  moment  or  two ; 
then  he  says: 

"  She  is  young,  Luttrell ;  she  has  seen  little  of  the  world. 
You  must  give  her  time.  I  know  no  man  I  would  prefei 
to  you  as  a  brother;  but — give  her  time.  Be  satisfied 
with^the  engagement ;  do  not  let  us  speak  of  marriage  jus* 
yet. 

"Not  unless  she  wishes  it,"  eays  the  young  man, 
bravely,  and  perhaps  a  little  proudly. 

"  la  a  yew,"  aays  John,  still  with  hi*  eyes  oa  his 


MOLL  Y  BA  Wff.  & 

tffnl  sister,  and  speaking  with  marked  hesitation,  as  though 
waiting  for  her  to  make  some  sign  by  which  he  shall  know 
how  to  best  forward  her  secret  wishes ;  ' '  then  we  may 
begin  to  talk  about  it." 

"  Yes,  then  we  may  talk  about  it/'  echoes  Molly,  cheer- 
fully. 

"  But  a  year ! — it  is  a  lifetime,"  says  Luttrell,  with  gome 
azcitement,  turning  his  eyes,  full  of  a  mute  desire  for 
help,  upon  Letitia.  And  when  did  Letitia  ever  fail  any 
one? 

"  I  certainly  think  it  is  too  long,"  she  says,  truthfully 
and  kindly. 

"No,"  cries  Molly,  pettishly,  "it  shall  be  as  John 
wishes.  Why,  it  is  nothing !  Think  of  all  the  long  years 
to  come  afterward,  when  we  shall  not  be  able  to  get  rid  of 
eaah  other,  no  matter  how  earnestly  we  may  desire  it ;  and. 
men  oee  how  small  in  comparison  is  this  one  year." 

Luttrell,  who  has  grown  a  little  pale,  goes  over  to  her 
and  takes  her  hand  in  both  his.  His  face  is  grave,  fuller 
of  purpose  than  they  have  ever  seen  it.  To  him  the  scene 
is  a  betrothal,  almost  a  marriage. 

"You  will  be  true  to  me?"  he  says,  with  suppressed 
emotion.  "  Swear  that  you  will,  before  your  brother." 

"  Of  course  I  will,"  with  a  quick,  nervous  laugh.  "  Why 
should  I  be  otherwise?  You  frighten  me  with  your 
solemn  ways.  Am  I  more  to  you  than  I  was  yesterday? 
Why,  how  should  I  be  untrue  to  you,  even  if  I  wished  it? 
I  shall  see  no  one  from  the  day  you  leave  until  you  come 
again." 

At  this  moment  the  noise  of  the  door-handle  being 
turned  makes  him  drop  her  hand,  and  they  all  fall  simul- 
taneously into  what  they  hope  is  an  easy  attitude.  And 
then  Sarah  appears  upon  the  threshold  with  a  letter  and  a 
small  packet  between  her  first  finger  and  thumb.  She  is  a 
rery  genteel  girl,  is  Sarah,  and  would  scorn  to  take  a  firm 
grasp  of  anything. 

"This  'ere  is  for  you,  sir,"  she  says,  delivering  the 
packet  to  Luttrell,  who  consigns  it  hastily  to  his  coat- 
pocket  ;  "  and  this  for  you,  Miss  Molly,"  giving  the  letter. 
"  The  postman  says,  sir,  as  'ow  they  only  come  by  the  af- 
ternoon, but  I  am  of  the  rooted  opinion  that  he  forgot  'm 
this  morning." 

Thus  Sarah,  who  is  loquacious  though  trustworthy,  and 
bean  an  undying  grudge  to  the  postman,  in  that  ae  has 


gg  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

exproseed  himself  lees  enamored  of  her  waning  charms  tuan 
of  those  of  the  more  buxom  Jane,  who  queens  it  over  the 
etewpans  and  the  cold  joints. 

"Most  improper  of  the  postman,"  replies  Mr.  Maaee- 
reene,  soothingly. 

Meantime,  Molly  is  standing  staring  curiously  at  her 
missive. 

"  I  don't  know  the  writing,"  she  says  in  a  vague  tone. 
"I  do  hope  it  isn't  a  bill." 

"A  bill,  with  that  monogram!"  exclaims  Luttrell. 
"  Not  likely.  I  would  swear  to  a  dunning  epistle  at  twenty 
yards'  distance." 

"Who  can  it  be  from?"  wonders  Molly,  still  dallying 
with  one  finger  inserted  beneath  the  flap  of  the  envelope. 

"Perhaps,  if  you  look  within  you  may  find  out,"  sug- 
gests John,  meekly;  and  thus  encouraged  she  opens  the 
fetter  and  rer.ds. 

At  first  her  face  betrays  mere  indifference,  then  surprise, 
ftten  a  sudden  awakening  to  intense  interest,  and  lastly  un- 
mitigated astonishment. 

"It  is  the  most  extraordinary  thing,"  she  says,  at  last, 
looking  up,  and  addressing  them  in  an  awestruck  whisper, 
"the  most  unexpected.  After  all  these  years, — I  oaa 
scarcely  believe  it  to  be  true." 

"  But  what  is  it,  darling? "  asks  Letty,  actually  tin- 
gling with  excitement. 

"  An  invitation  to  Herst  Royal!  " 

"  I  don't  believe  you,"  cries  Luttrell,  who  means  no 
rudeness  at  all,  but  is  merely  declaring  in  a  modern  fashion 
kow  delighted  beyond  measure  he  is. 

"Look:  is  not  that  Marcia's  writing?  I  suppose  she 
wrote  it,  though  it  is  dictated  by  grandpapa." 

All  four  heads  were  instantly  bent  over  the  clear,  bold 
calligraphy  to  read  the  cold  but  courteous  invitation  it  con- 
tains. 

"  Dear  Eleanor  "  is  given  to  understand  that  her  grand- 
father will  be  pleased  to  make  her  acquaintance,  if  she  will 
be  pleased  to  transfer  herself  and  her  maid  to  Herst  Koyai 
on  the  twenty-seventh  of  the  present  month.  There  are  a 
few  hints  about  suitable  trains,  a  request  that  a  speedy 
reply  in  the  affirmative  will  be  sent,  and  then  "dear 
Eleanor  "  is  deeired  to  look  upon  Mr.  Amherst  as  her  "  af- 
fectionate grandfather."  Not  one  word  about  all  the  neg. 
lect  that  has  been  showered  upon  her  for  nineteen  years. 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  88 

"  Well?  "  says  Luttrell,  who  is  naturally  the  first  te  re- 
yver  himself. 

"  Had  you  anything  to  do  with  this?  "  asks  John,  turn- 
ing almost  fiercely  to  him. 

"  Nothing,  on  my  honor." 

"  He  must  be  near  death/'  says  Letitia.  Molly  is  silent, 
her  eyes  still  fixed  upon  the  letter.  "  I  think,  John — she 
ought  to  go." 

"  Of  course  she  shall  go,"  returns  John,  a  kind  of  savage 
jealousy  pricking  him.  "  I  can't  provide  for  her  after  my 
death.  That  old  man  may  be  softened  by  her  face  or  terri- 
fied by  the  near  approach  of  dissolution  into  doing  her  jus- 
tice. He  has  neither  watched  her,  nor  tended  her,  nor 
loved  her;  but  now  that  she  has  come  to  perfection  ht 
claims  her." 

"John,"  cries  Molly,  with  sudden  passion,  flinging  her- 
self into  his  arms,  I  will  not  go.  No,  not  one  step. 
What  is  he  to  me,  that  etern  old  tyrant,  who  has  refused 
for  nineteen  years  to  acknowledge  me?  While  you,  my 
dear,  my  darling,  you  are  my  all." 

"Nonsense,  child!"  speaking  roughly,  although  con- 
soled and  strengthened  by  her  caress  and  loving  words. 
"It  is  what  I  have  been  wishing  for  all  these  years.  Of 
oourse  you  must  go.  It  is  only  right  you  should  be  recog- 
nized by  your  relation?-,  even  though  it  is  so  late  in  the 
day.  Perhaps  he  will  leave  you  a  legacy ;  and  " — smiling 
— "  I  think  I  may  console  myself  with  the  reflection  that 
old  Aniherst  will  scarcely  be  able  to  cat  me  out." 

"You  may,  without  flattering  yourself,"  says  Luttrell. 

"  Letitia,  do  you  too  want  to  get  rid  of  me?  "  asks  Molly, 
still  half  crying. 

"You  are  a  hypocrite,"  saye  Letitia;  "you  know  you 
are  dying  to  go.  I  should,  were  I  in  your  place.  Instead 
of  lamenting,  you  ought  to  be  thanking  your  stars  for  this 
lucky  chance  that  has  befallen  you;  and  you  should  be 
doubly  grateful  to  us  for  letting  you  go,  as  we  shall  miss 
you  horribly.**' 

"I  shan't  stay  any  time,"  says  Molly,  reviving.  "I 
shall  be  back  before  you  realize  the  fact  that  I  have  gone. 
I  know  in  polite  society  no  one  is  expected  to  outstay  a 
month  at  the  verv  longest." 

"You  cover  me  with  confusion,"  say 8  Luttrell,  laugh- 
ing.    "  Consider  what  unmentionable  form  I   have   oie- 
How  knag  have  I  outstayed  my  time;'    It  is  un- 


94  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

commonly  good  of  you,  Mrs.  Massereene,  not  to  have  givaa 
me  my  conge  long  ago  ;  but  my  only  excuse  is  that  I  have 
been  so  utterly  happy.  Perhaps  you  will  forgive  me  when 
you  learn  that  I  must  tear  myself  away  on  Thursday." 

"Oh!  must  you?"  says  Letitia,  honestly  sorry.  Now 
that  the  engagement  is  un  fait  accompli,  and  the  bride- 
groom-elect has  declared  himself  not  altogether  so  insolv- 
ent as  she  had  feared,  she  drops  precautionary  measures 
and  gives  way  to  the  affection  with  which  she  has  begun  to 
regard  him.  "  You  are  going  to  Herst  also.  Why  cannot 
you  stay  here  to  accompany  Molly?  Her  going  is  barely 
three  weeks  distant." 

"  If  I  could  I  would  not  require  much  pressing,  you  can 
readily  believe  that.  But  duty  is  imperative,  and  go  I 
must." 

"You  did  not  tell  me  you  were  going,"  says  Molly, 
looking  aggrieved.  "  How  long  have  you  known  it?  " 

"  For  a  week.  I  could  not  bear  to  think  about  leaving, 
much  less  to  speak  of  it,  so  full  of  charms  has  Brooklyn 
proved  itself,"  —  with  a  smile  at  Mrs.  Massereene,  —  "but 
it  is  an  indisputable  fact  for  all  that." 

"Well,  in  spite  of  Lindley  Murray  I  maintain  that  life 
is  long,"  says  Massereene,  who  has  been  silent  for  the  past 
few  minutes.  "  And  I  need  hardly  tell  you,  Luttrell,  you 
are  welcome  here  whenever  you  please  to  come." 

"  Thank  you,  old  boy,"  says  Luttrell. 

"  Come  out,"  whispers  Molly,  slipping  her  hand  into  her 
lover's  (she  minds  John  and  Letitia  about  as  much  as  she 
minds  the  tables  and  chairs);  "the  rain  has  ceased;  and 
see  what  a  beautiful  sun.  1  have  any  amount  of  things  to 
say  to  you,  and  a  whole  volume  of  questions  to  ask  about 
ray  detested  grand-p&re.  So  freshen  your  wits.  But  first 
before  we  go"  —  mischievously,  and  with  a  little  nod  full 
of  reproof  —  "  I  really  think  you  ought  to  apologize  to  John 
for  your  scandalous  behavior  of  this  morning. 

;'  Molly,  I  predict  this  glorious  future  for  you,"  says  her 
brother:  ''that  you  will  be  returned  to  me  from  Herst 
Royal  in  disgrace," 


When  they  have  reached  the  summer-house  in  the  gar- 
dan,  whither  they  have  wended  their  way,  with  a  view  to 
shade  (as  the  sun,  having  been  debarred  from  shining  for 
BO  many  hours,,  is  now  exerting  itself  to  the 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  91 

up  for  lost  time),  Luttrell  draws  from  his  pocket  tha 
identical  parcel  delivered  to  him  by  Sarah,  and,  holding  it 
out  to  Molly,  says,  somewhat  shamefacedly: 

"  Here  is  something  for  you." 

"For  me?"  coloring  with  surprise  and  pleasant  ex- 
pectation. She  is  a  being  so  unmistakably  delighted;  \ritk 
anything  she  receives,  be  it  small  or  great,  that  it  is  an  ab- 
solute joy  to  give  to  her.  "  What  is  it?  " 

'"  Open  it  and  see.  I  have  not  seen  it  myself  yet,  but  I 
hope  it  will  please  you." 

Off  comes  the  wrapper ;  a  little  leather  case  is  disclosed, 
a  mysterious  fastener  undone,  and  there  inside,  in  its  vel- 
vet shelter,  lies  an  exquisite  diamond  ring  that  glistens  and 
flashes  up  into  her  enchanted  eyes. 

"Oh,  Teddy!  it  cannot  be  for  me,"  she  says,  with  a 
little  gasp  that  speaks  volumes;  "it  is  too  beautiful.  Oh, 
how  good  of  you  to  think  of  it !  And  how  did  you  know 
that  if  there  is  one  thing  on  earth  which  I  love  it  is  a  ring? 
And  such  a  ring !  You  wicked  boy,  I  do  believe  you  have 
spent  a  fortune  on  it. "  Yet  in  reality  she  hardly  guessea 
the  full  amount  of  the  generous  sum  that  has  been  so  will 
ingly  expended  on  that  glittering  hoop. 

"  I  am  glad  you  like  it,"  he  says,  radiant  at  her  praise. 
"I  think  it  is  pretty." 

"  '  Pretty'  is  a  poor  word.  It  is  far  too  handsome.  I 
would  scold  you  for  your  extravagance,  but  I  have  lost  the 
power  just  now.  And  do  you  know,"  raising  her  soft- 
flushed  face  to  her  lover, —  I  never  had  a  ring  before  in 
my  life,  except  a  very  old-fashioned  one  of  my  mother's, 
an  ancient  square,  you  know,  with  hair  in  the  centie,  and 
all  around  it  big  pearls,  that  are  anything  but  pearly  now, 
as  they  have  grown  quite  black.  Thank  you  a  thousand 
times." 

She  slips  her  arm  around  his  neck  and  presses  her  lips 
warmly,  unbashfully  to  his  cheek.  Be  it  ever  so  cold,  so 
wanting  in  the  shyness  that  belongs  to  conscious  tender- 
ness, it  is  still  the  very  first  caress  she  has  ev«  given  him 
af  her  own  accord.  A  little  thrill  runs  througri  him,  and 
a  mad  longing  to  catch  her  in  his  arms,  as  he  feels  the 
sweet,  cool  touch ;  yet  he  restrains  himself.  Some  innate 
sense  of  honor,  born  on  the  occasion,  a  shrinking  lest  gh« 
should  deem  him  capable  of  claiming  even  so  natural  a  re- 
turn for  his  gift,  compels  him  to  forego  his  desire.  II 
is  noticeable,  too,  tliat  ha  does  not  even  place  ti*e 


92  MOLLY  BAWN. 

upoa  her  engaged  finger,  as  moat  men  would  have  doae, 
It  is  a  bauble  meant  to  gratify  her :  why  make  it  a  fetter, 
be  it  ever  so  light  a  one? 

"  I  am  amply  repaid,"  he  says,  gently.  "  Was  there  ever 
such  luck  as  your  getting  that  invitation  this  morning?  I 
wonder  what  could  have  put  it  into  the  old  fellow's  head  to 
invite  you?  Are  you  glad  you  are  going?  " 

"I  am.  I  almost  think  it  is  mean  of  me  to  be  eo 
glad,  but  I  can't  help  it.  Is  my  grandfather  so  very 
terrific?" 

"He  is  all  of  that,"  says  Luttrell,  "and  a  good  deal 
more.  If  I  were  an  American  I  would  have  no  scruples 
.about  calling  him  a  '  darned  old  cuss ' :  as  it  is,  I  will 
•  smother  my  feelings,  and  let  you  discover  his  failings  for 
yourself. " 

"  If  he  is  as  bad  as  you  say,  I  wonder  he  gets  any  one  to 
visit  him." 

"He  does,  however.  We  all  go, — generally  the  same 
lot  every  year ;  though  I  have  been  rather  out  of  it  for  a 
time,  on  account  of  my  short  stay  in  India.  He  has  first- 
class  shooting;  and  when  he  is  not  in  the  way,  it  is  pretty 
jolly.  He  hates  old  people,  and  never  allows  a  chaperou 
inside  his  doors, — I  mean  elderly  chaperons.  The  young 
ones  don't  count :  they,  as  a  rule,  are  backward  in  the  art 
of  talking  at  one  and  making  things  disagreeable  all 
round." 

"But  he  is  old  himself." 

"  That's  just  it.  It  is  all  jealousy.  He  finds  every  old 
person  he  meets,  no  matter  how  unpleasant,  a  decided  im- 
provement on  himself;  whereas  he  can  always  hope  the 
young  ones  may  turn  out  his  counterparts." 

"  Really,  if  you  say  much  more,  I  shall  be  afraid  to  go 
to  Herst." 

"Oh,  well" — temporizing — "perhaps  I  exaggerate 
ilightly.  He  has  a  wretched  temper,  and  he  takes  snuff, 
you  know,  but  I  dare  say  there  are  worse." 

"I  hajM  heard  of  damning  praise,"  says  Molly,  laugh- 
ing. »>u  are  an  adept  at  it." 

"Am  I?  I  didn't  know.  Well,  do  you  know,  in  spite 
of  all  my  uncivil  remarks,  there  is  a  certain  charm  about 
Herat  that  other  country-houses  lack?  We  all  understand 
our  host's  little  weaknesses,  in  the  first  place,  and  are, 
therefore,  never  caught  sleeping.  We  feel  as  if  we  were  at 
again,  united  by  a  oomaion  cause,  with  all  th*  ex- 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  93 

citement  of  a  conspiracy  on  foot  that  has  a  master  for  its 
victim ;  though,  to  confess  the  truth,  the  master  in  our 
case  has  generally  the  best  of  it,  as  he  has  a  perfect  talent 
for  hitting  on  one's  sore  point.  Then,  too,  we  know  to  a 
nicety  when  the  aear  old  man  is  in  a  particularly  vicio*s 
mood,  which  is  usually  at  dinner-time,  and  we  keep  look- 
ing at  each  other  through  every  course,  wondering  on 
whose  devoted  head  the  shell  of  his  wrath  will  first  burst ; 
and  when  that  is  over  we  wonder  again  whose  turn  it  will 
be  next." 

"  It  must  keep  you  very  lively." 

"  It  does ;  and,  what  is  better,  it  prevents  formality,  and 
puts  an  end  to  the  earlier  stages  of  etiquette.  We  feel  a 
sort  of  relationship,  a  clanship  among  us ;  and,  indeed,  for 
the  most  part,  we  are  related,  as  Mr.  Amherst  prefers  en- 
tertaining his  family  to  any  others, — it  is  so  much  easier  to 
be  unpleasant  to  them  than  to  strangers.  I  am  connected 
with  him  very  distantly  through  my  mother;  so  is  Cecil 
Stafford;  so  is  Potts  in  some  undefined  way." 

"Now,  don't  tell  me  you  are  my  cousin,"  says  Molly, 
"  because  I  wouldn't  like  it." 

"  I  am  not  proud;  if  you  will  let  me  be  your  husband,  I 
won't  ask  anything  more.  Oh,  Molly,  how  I  wish  this  year 
was  at  an  end !  " 

"Do  you?  I  don't.  I  am  absolutely  dying  to  go  to 
Herst. "  Then,  turning  eyes  that  are  rather  wistful  upon 
him,  she  says,  earnestly,  "  Do  they — the  women,  I  mean — 
wear  very  lovely  clothes?  To  be  like  them  must  I — be  very 
well  dressed?  " 

"  You  always  are  very  well  dressed,  are  you  not?  "  asks 
her  lover,  in  return,  casting  a  loving,  satisfied  glance  over 
the  fresh,  inexpensive  Holland  gown  she  wears,  with  a 
charming  but  strictly  masculine  disregard  of  the  fact  that 
muslin  is  not  silk,  nor  cotton  cashmere. 

"  Am  I?  You  stupid  boy ! ;;  says  Molly ;  but  she  laughs 
in  a  little  pleased  way  and  pats  his  hand.  Ne^l  to  being 
praised  herself,  the  sweetest  thing  to  a  woman  is  to  have 
her  dress  praised.  "Not  I.  Well,  no  matter;  they  may 
crush  me  if  they  please  with  their  designs  by  Worth,  but  I 
defy  them  to  have  a  prettier  ring  than  mine,"  smiling  at 
her  new  toy  as  it  still  lies  in  the  middle  of  her  hand.  Is 
Herst  very  large,  Teddy?  How  shall  I  remember  my  own 
room?  It  will  be  so  awkward  to  be  forever  running  into 
somebody  else's,  won't  it?  " 


JU  MOLLY  PAWN. 

"  Yor.r  maid  will  manage  all  that  for  you." 

"  M'y  maid  ?  "  coloring  slowly,  but  still  with  her  eyes  on 
his.  "  And— supposing  I  have  no  maid  ?  " 

••  Well,  then,"  said  Tedcastle,  who  lias  been  bred  in  the 
briiH:  that  a  woman  without  her  maid  is  as  lost  us  a  babe 
without  its  mother,  "  why,  then,  1  suppose,  you  would  bor- 
row one  from  your  nearest  neighbor.  Cecil  Stafford  would 
lend  you  hers.  I  know  my  sisters  were  only  allowed  one 
maid  between  each  two ;  and  when  they  spent  the  autumn 
in  different  houses  they  used  to  toss  up  which  should  have 
her." 

"  What  does  a  maid  do  for  one,  I  wonder?  "  muses  inde- 
pendent Molly. 

"  I  should  fancy  you  could  better  answer  that  than  I." 

"  No, — because  I  never  had  one." 

"Well,  neither  had  I,"  says  Luttrell;  at  which  they 
both  laugh. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  says  Molly,  in  a  rather  dispirited  tone, 
"  I  shall  feel  rather  strange  at  Herst.  I  wish  you  could 
manage  to  be  there  the  very  day  I  arrive. — could  you, 
Teddy?  I  would  not  be  so  lonely  if  I  knew  for  certain  you 
would  be  on  the  spot  to  welcome  me.  It  is  horrible  going 
there  for — that  is — to  be  inspected." 

"  I  will  surely  be  there  a  day  or  two  after,  but  I  doubt  if 
I  could  be  there  on  the  twenty-seventh.  You  may  trust 
me  to  do  my  best/' 

"  I  suppose  it  is — a  very  grand  place/'  questions  Molly, 
growing  more  and  more  depressed,  "with  dinner-parties 
every  day,  and  butlers,  and  footmen,  and  all  the  rest  of  it? 
And  I  shall  be  there,  a  stranger,  with  no  one  to  care 
whether  I  enjoy  myself  or  not." 

''  You  forget  me,"  says  Luttrell,  quietly. 

"  True,"  returns  she,  brightening;  "  and  whenever  you 
see  me  sitting  by  myself,  Teddy,  you  are  to  come  over  to 
me,  no  matter  how  engaged  you  may  be,  and  sit  down  be- 
side me.  If  I  have  any  one  else  with  me,  of  course  you 
need  not  nflnd  it." 

"I  see."  Rather  dryly.  "Two  is  company,  three  ia 
trumpery. " 

"Have  I  vexed  you?  How  foolish  you  are!  Why,  if 
you  are  jealous  in  imagination,  how  will  it  be  in  reality? 
there  will  oe  niawy  men  at  Herst:  and  perhaps— who 
knows " 

"What?" 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  % 

"  I  may  fall  in  love  with  some  of  them." 

"  Very  likely/'     With  studied  coolness. 
'  Philip  Shadwell,  for  instance?  " 
'It  may  be." 
'Or  your  Mr.  Potts?" 
'  There  is  no  accounting  for  tastes." 
'  Or  any  one  else  that  may  happen  to  please  me?" 
*  I  see  nothing  to  prevent  it." 
'And  what  then?" 

'  Why,  then  you  will  forget  me,  and  like  him, — until 
you  like  some  one  else  better." 

"Now,  if  I  were  a  dignified  young  lady,"  says  Molly. 
"I  should  feel  insulted;  but,  being  only  Molly  Bawn,  I 
don't.  I  forgive  you ;  and  I  won't  fall  in  love  with  any 
one ;  so  you  may  take  that  thunder-cloud  off  your  brow  as 
soon  as  it  may  please  your  royal  highness." 

"  What  do  you  gain  by  making  me  unhappy?"  asks  he, 
impetuously  seizing  the  hand  she  has  extended  to  him  with 
all  the  air  of  an  offended  but  gracious  queen. 

"  Everything."  Laughing.  "  I  delight  in  teasing  you, 
you  look  so  deliciously  miserable  all  through ;  it  is  never 
time  thrown  away  upon  you.  Now,  if  you  could  only 
manage  to  laugh  at  my  sallies  or  tease  me  back  again,  i 
dare  say  I  should  give  in  in  a  week  and  let  you  rest  in  peace 
ever  after.  Why  don't  you?" 

"  Perhaps  because  I  can't.  All  people  are  not  gifted 
with  your  fertile  imagination.  Or  because  it  would  give 
me  no  pleasure  to  see  you  '  deliciously  miserable.' ' 

"  Oh,  you  wouldn't  see  that,"  says  Molly,  airily.  "  All 
you  could  say  would  not  suffice  to  bring  even  the  faintest 
touch  of  misery  into  my  face.  Angry  I  might  be,  but 
*  miserable/  never!  " 

"  Be  assured,  Molly,  I  shall  never  put  your  words  to  the 
test.  Your  happiness  means  mine." 

"  See  how  the  diamonds  flash !  "  says  Molly,  presently, 
recurring  to  her  treasure.  "  Is  this  the  engagement- 
finger?  But  I  will  not  let  it  stay  there,  lest  it  might  l>«- 
tray  me/* 

"  But  every  one  knows  it  now." 

"Are  John  and  Letty  every  one?  At  Herat  they  art 
still  in  blissful  ignorance.  Let  them  remain  so.  I  insist 
on  our  engagement  being  kept  secret." 

"But  why?" 

"  Because  if  it  was  known  it  would  spoil  all  ray  f"n.     I 


£6  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

have  noticed  that  men  avoid  a  fiancie  as  they  would  a — a 
rattlesnake." 

"I  cannot  see  why  being  engaged  should  spoil  your 
fun." 

"  But  it  would  for  all  that.  Come  now,  Ted,  be  candid: 
how  often  were  you  in  love  before  you  met  me?" 

" Never."     "With  the  vehemence  of  a  thousand  oaths. 

"  Well,  then,  to  put  it  differently,  how  many  girls  did 
you  like?" 

"Like?"  Reluctantly.  "Oh,  as  for  that,  I  suppose  I 
did  fancy  I  liked  a  few  girls." 

"Just  so;  and  I  should  like  to  like  a  few  men,"  says 
Miss  Massereene,  triumphantly. 

"You  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,"  says 
Tedcastle,  hotly. 

"  Indeed  I  do.  That  is  just  one  of  the  great  points 
which  the  defenders  of  women's  rights  forget  to  expatiate 
upon.  A  man  may  love  as  often  a«  he  chooses,  while  a 
woman  must  only  love  once,  or  he  considers  himself  very 
badly  used.  Why  not  be  on  an  equal  footing?  Not  that  I 
want  to  love  any  one,"  says  Molly;  "  only  it  is  the  injus- 
tice of  the  thing  I  abhor." 

"  Love  any  one  you  choose,"  says  Tedcastle,  passion- 
ately, springing  to  his  feet,  ' '  Shad  well  or  any  other  fellow 
that  comes  in  your  way,  I  shan't  interfere.  It  is  hardly 
necessary  for  you  to  say  you  don't  '  want  to  love  one. ' 
Your  heart  is  as  cold  as  ice.  It  is  high  time  this  engage- 
ment— this  farce — should  come  to  an  end." 

"  If  you  wish  it,"  says  Molly,  quietly,  in  a  subdued  tone, 
yet  as  she  says  it  she  moves  one  step — no  more — closer  to 
him. 

"  But  I  do  not  wish  it ;  that  is  my  cruel  fate !  "  cries  the 
young  man,  taking  both  her  hands  and  laying  them  over 
his  heart  with  a  despairing  tenderness.  "  There  are  none 
happy  save  those  incapable  of  knowing  a  lasting  affection. 
Oh,  Molly!  "—remorsefully — "forgive  me.  lam  speak- 
ing to  you  as  I  ought  not.  It  is  all  my  beastly  temper ; 
though  I  used  not  to  be  ill-tempered,"  says  he,  with  sad 
wonder.  "At  home  and  among  our  fellows  I  was  always 
considered  rather  easy-going  than  otherwise.  I  think  the 
knowledge  that  I  must  part  from  you  on  Thursday  (though 
snly  for  a  short  time)  is  embittering  me." 

"Then  you  are  really  sorry  to  leave  me?"  questions 
Molly,  peering  up  at  him  from  under  her  straw  hat. 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  97 

"You  know  I  am." 

"But  very  sorry, — desperately  so  ?" 

"Yes."  Gravely,  and  with  something  that  is  almost 
tears  in  his  eyes.  "  Why  do  you  ask  me,  Molly  ?  Is  it  not 
palpable  enough  ?  " 

"It  is  not.  You  look  just  the  same  as  ever, — quite  as 
' easy-going '  " — with  a  malicious  pout — "as  either  your 
*  home  '  or  your  '  fellows  '  could  desire.  I  quite  buoyed 
myself  up  with  the  hope  that  I  should  see  you  reduced  to 
a  skeleton  as  the  last  week  crept  to  its  close,  and  here  you 
are  robust  and  well  to  do  as  usual.  I  call  it  unfeeling," 
says  Miss  Massereene,  reproachfully,  "and  I  don't  believe 
you  care  a  pin  about  me." 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  me  'reduced  to  a  skeleton  '?" 
asks  Luttrell,  reproachfully.  "  You  talk  as  though  you 
had  been  done  out  of  something ;  but  a  man  may  be  horri- 
bly cut  up  about  a  thing  without  letting  all  the  world 
know  of  it." 

"You  conceal  it  with  great  skill,"  says  Molly,  placing 
her  hand  beneath  his  chin,  under  a  pretense  of  studying 
his  features,  but  in  reality  to  compel  him  to  look  at  her ; 
and,  as  it  is  impossible  for  any  one  to  gaze  into  another's 
eyes  for  any  length  of  time  without  showing  emotion  of 
some  kind,  presently  he  laughs. 

"Ah!  "  cries  she,  well  pleased,  "now  I  have  made  you 
laugh,  your  little  attack  of  the  spleens  will  possibly  take  to 
itself  wings  and  fly  away." 

All  through  the  remainder  of  this  day  and  the  whole  of 
the  next — which  is  his  last — she  is  sweetness  itself  to  him. 
Whatever  powers  of  tormenting  she  possesses  are  kept  well 
in  the  background,  while  she  betrays  nothing  but  a  very 
successful  desire  to  please. 

She  wanders  with  him  contentedly  through  garden  and 
lawn ;  she  sits  beside  him ;  at  dinner  she  directs  swift,  sur- 
reptitious smiles  at  him  across  the  flowers;  later  on  sho 
sings  to  him  his  favorite  songs;  and  why  she  scarcely 
knows.  Perhaps  through  a  coquettish  desire  to  make  the 
parting  harder;  perhaps  to  make  his  chains  still  stronger; 
perhaps  to  soothe  his  evident  regret;  perhaps  (who  can 
say?)  because  she  too  feels  that  same  regret. 

And  surely  to-night  some  new  spirit  is  awake  within  her. 
Never  has  she  sung  so  sweetly.  As  her  glorious  voice 
floats  through  the  dimly-lighted  room  and  out  into  the 
more  brilliant  night  bevond,  LuttroU,  and  Letitia, 


93  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

John  sit  entranced  and  wonder  secretly  at  the  great  gift 
that  has  been  given  her. 

If  ever  words  are  sweet,  what,  what  is  song 
When  lips  we  love  the  melody  prolong! " 

Molly  in  every-day  life  is  one  thing;  Molly  singing  di- 
Tinely  is  another.  One  wonders  curiously,  when  hearing 
her,  how  anything  so  gay,  so  debonnaire  as  she,  can  throw 
such  passion  into  words,  such  thrilling  tenderness,  such 
wild  and  mournful  longing. 

"  Molly,"  cries  John  impatiently  from  the  balcony,  "  I 
cannot  bear  to  hear  you  sing  like  that.  One  would  think 
your  heart  was  broken.  Don't  do  it,  child/' 

And  Molly  laughs  lightly,  and  bursts  into  a  barcarolle 
that  utterly  precludes  the  idea  of  any  deep  feeling ;  after 
which  she  gives  them  her  own  "  Molly  Bawn,"  and  then, 
shutting  down  the  piano,  declares  she  is  tired,  and  that 
evidently  John  doesn't  appreciate  her,  and  so  she  will  sing 
no  more. 

Then  comes  the  last  morning, — the  cruel  moment  when 
farewell  must  be  said. 

The  dog-cart  is  at  the  door ;  John  is  good-naturedly  busy 
about  the  harness ;  and,  Letitia  having  suddenly  and  with 
suspicious  haste  recollected  important  commands  for  the 
kitchen,  whither  she  withdraws  herself,  the  lovers  find 
themselves  alone. 

"Hurry,  man;  you  will  barely  catch  it,"  cries  John, 
from  outside,  meaning  the  train;  having  calculated  to  a 
nicety  how  long  It  would  take  him  to  give  and  receive  a 
kiss,  now  that  he  has  been  married  for  more  years  than  he 
cares  to  count. 

Luttrell,  starting  at  his  voice,  seizes  both  Molly's  hands. 

"  Keep  thinking  of  me  always,"  he  says,  in  a  low  tone, 
" always,  lest  at  any  moment  you  forget." 

Molly  makes  him  no  answer,  bat  slowly  raises  to  him 
eyes  wet  with  unshed  tears.  It  is  more  than  he  has  hoped 
for. 

"  Molly,"  he  cries,  hurriedly,  only  too  ready  to  grasp 
this  email  bud  of  a  longed-for  affection,  "you  will  be 
sorry  for  me?  There  are  tears  in  your  eyes,— you  will  mi*s 
me?  You  love  me,  surely,— a  little?" 

Once  more  the  lovely  dewy  eyes  meet  his;  she  nods  at 
him  and  smiles  faintly. 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN»  99 

"  A  little/'  he  repeats,  wistfully.  (Perhaps  he  has  been 
assuring  himself  of  some  more  open  encouragement, — has 
dreamed  of  spoken  tenderness,  and  feels  the  disappoint- 
ment.) "  Some  men,"  he  goes  on,  softly,  "  can  lay  claim 
to  all  the  great  treasure  of  their  love's  heart,  while  I — see 
how  eagerly  I  accept  the  bare  crumbs.  Yet,  darling,  be- 
lieve me,  your  sweet  coldness  is  dearer  to  me  than  another 
woman's  warmest  assertion.  And  later — who  knows? — 
•perhaps " 


es,  perhaps,"  says  Molly,  stirred  by  his  emotion  or 
by  some  other  stronger  sentiment  lying  deep  at  the  bottom 
of  her  heart,  "  by  and  by  I  may  perhaps  bore  you  to  death 
by  the  violence  of  my  devotion.  Meantime  "• — standing  on 
tiptoe,  and  blushing  just  enough  to  make  her  even  more 
adorable  than  before,  and  placing  two  white  hands  on  his 
shoulders — "you  shall  have  one  small,  wee  kiss  to  carry 
away  with  you." 

Half  in  doubt  he  waits  until  of  her  own  sweet  accord  her 
lips  do  verily  meet  his ;  and  then,  catching  her  in  his  arms, 
he  strains  her  to  him,  forgetful  for  the  n  oment  of  the 
great  fact  that  neither  time  nor  tide  waits  for  any  man. 

"You  are  not  going,  I  suppose?"  calls  John,  his  voice 
breaking  in  rudely  upon  the  harrowing  scene.  "  Shall  I 
send  the  horse  back  to  the  stables?  Here,  James," — to 
the  stable  boy, — "take  round  Rufus;  Mr.  Luttrell  is 
going  to  stay  another  month  or  two." 

"Remember,"  says  Luttrell,  earnestly,  still  holding  her 
as  though  loath  to  let  her  go. 

"  You  remind  me  of  Charles  the  First,"  murmurs  she, 
smiling  through  her  tears.  "  Yes,  I  will  remember  you, 
and  all  you  have  said,  and — everything.  And  more,  I  ehall 
be  longing  to  see  you  again.  Now  go."  Giving  him  a 
little  push. 

Presently — he  hardly  knows  how — he  finds  himself  iu 
the  dog-cart,  with  John,  oppressively  cheerful,  beside  him, 
and,  looking  back  as  they  drive  briskly  up  the  avenue, 
takes  a  last  glance  at  Brooklyn,  with  Molly  on  the  steps, 
waving  her  hand  to  him,  and  watching  his  retreating  form 
with  such  a  regretful  countenance  as  gives  him  renewed 
courage. 

In  an  upper  window  is  Letitia,  more  than  equal  to  the 
occasion,  armed  with  one  of  John's  largest  handkerchiefs, 
Hi  at  bears  a  sfrnnr  resemblance  to  a  young  sheet  as  it  flut- 
ters frantically  hither  and  thither  in  the  breeze;  while 


100  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

below  the  two  children,  Daisy  and  Renee,— under  a  mis- 
taken  impression  that  the  hour  is  festive,— throw  after 
him  a  choice  collection  of  old  boots  much  the  worse  for 
wear,  which  they  have  purloined  with  praiseworthy  adroit- 
ness from  under  their  nurse's  nose. 

"  Oh,  Letty,  I  do  feel  so  honestly  lonely,"  says  Molly. 
half  an  hour  later,  meeting  her  sister-in-law  on  the  stairs, 

"  Do  you,  dearest?  "  admiringly.  "  That  is  very  nice  of 
you.  Never  mind;  you  know  you  will  soon  see  him  again. 
And  let  us  come  and  consult  about  the  dresses  you  ought 
to  wear  at  Herat." 

"Yes,  do  let  us,"  returns  Miss  Massereene,  brightening 
with  suspicious  alacrity,  and  drawing  herself  up  as  straight 
as  a  young  tree  out  of  the  despondent  attitude  she  has  been 
wearing.  "  That  will  pass  the  time  better  than  any- 
thing." 

Whereupon  Letitia  chuckles  with  ill-suppressed  amuse- 
ment and  gives  it  as  her  opinion  that  "  dear  Molly  isn't  as 
bad  as  she  thinks  herself. 


John  has  done  his  duty,  has  driven  the  melancholy 
young  man  to  the  station,  and  very  nearly  out  of  his  wits 
— by  insisting  on  carrying  on  a  long  and  tedious  argument 
that  lasts  the  entire  way,  waiting  pertinaciously  for  a  reply 
to  every  one  of  his  questions. 

This  has  taken  some  time,  more  especially  as  the  train 
was  late  and  the  back  drive  hilly ;  yet  when  at  length  he 
reaches  his  home  he  finds  his  wife  and  Molly  still  deep  in 
the  mysteries  of  the  toilet. 

"  Well?  "  says  his  sister,  as  he  stands  in  the  doorway  re- 
garding them  silently.  As  she  speaks  she  allows  the  de- 
lected  expression  of  two  hours  ago  to  return  to  her  features, 
her  lids  droop  a  little  over  her  eyes,  her  forehead  goes  up, 
the  corners  of  her  mouth  go  down.  She  is  in-one  instant 
a  very  afflicted  Molly.  "  Well? "  she  says. 

"  He  isn't  well  at  all,"  replies  John,  with  a  dismal  shake 
of  the  head  and  as  near  an  imitation  of  Molly's  rueful 
countenance  as  he  can  manage  at  so  short  a  notice ;  "  he  is 
very  bad.  I  never  saw  a  worse  case  in  my  life.  I  doubt  if 
he  will  last  out  the  day.  I  don't  know  how  you  regard  it, 
but  I  call  it  cruelty  to  animals." 

"  You  need  not  be  uttfoduig,"  says  Molly,  reproaekfulty, 


MOLL  r  BA  Wff.  101 

'{ and  I  won't  listen  to  you  making  fun  of  him  behind  his 
back.  You  wouldn't  before  his  face." 

"  How  do  you  know?  "  As  though  weighing  the  point. 
"  I  never  saw  him  funny  until  to-day.  He  was  on  the 
verge  of  tears  the  entire  way.  It  was  lucky  I  was  beside 
him,  or  he  would  have  drenched  the  new  cushions.  For 
shame's  sake  he  refrained  before  me,  but  I  know  he  is  in 
floods  by  this." 

"He  is  not/'  says  Molly,  indignantly.  "Crying,  in- 
deed !  What  an  idea !  He  is  far  too  much  of  a  man  for 
that." 

"  I  am  a  man  too,"  says  John,  who  seems  to  find  a  rich 
harvest  of  delight  in  the  contemplation  of  Luttrell's  mis- 
ery. "  And  once,  before  we  were  married,  when  Letitia 
treated  me  with  disdain,  I  gave  way  to  my  feelings  to  such 
an  extent  that " 

"  Really,  John,"  interposes  his  wife,  "  I  wish  you  would 
keep  your  stupid  stories  to  yourself,  or  else  go  away.  We 
are  very  busy  settling  about  Molly's  things." 

"What  things?  Her  tea-things, — her  playthings?  Ah! 
poor  little  Molly !  her  last  nice  new  one  is  gone." 

"  Letty,  I  hope  you  don't  mind,  dear,"  says  Molly,  lift- 
ing a  dainty  china  boAvl  from  the  table  near  her.  "  Let  us 
trust  it  won't  break;  but,  whether  it  does  or  not,  I  must 
and  will  throw  it  at  John." 

"  She  should  at  all  events  have  one  pretty  new  silk 
dress,"  murmurs  Letitia,  vaguely,  whose  thoughts  "are 
with  her  heart,  and  that  is  far  away,"  literally  buried,  so 
to  speak,  in  the  depths  of  her  wardrobe.  "  She  could  not 
well  do  without  it.  Molly," — with  sudden  inspiration, — 
"you  shall  have  mine.  That  dove-color  always  looks 
pretty  on  a  girl,  and  I  have  only  worn  it  once.  It  can 
easily  be  made  to  fit  you." 

"'  I  wish,  Letitia,  you  would  not  speak  to  me  like  that," 
says  Molly,  almost  angrily,  though  there  are  tears  in  her 
eyes.  "  Do  you  suppose  I  want  to  rob  you?  I  have  no  doubt 
you  would  give  me  every  gown  you  possess,  if  I  so  willed  it, 
and  leave  yourself  nothing.  Do  remember  I  am  going  to 
Herst  more  out  of  spite  and  curiosity  than  anything  else, 
and  don't  care  in  the  least  how  I  look.  It  is  very  unkind 
of  you  to  say  such  things." 

"  You  are  the  kindest  soul  in  the  world,  Letty,"  says 
John  from  the  doorway;  "but  keep  your  silk.  Molly 
shall  have  one  too."  After  which  he  decamps. 


102  MOLL  y 


is  very  good  of  John/'  eays  Molly  "  The  fact 
is,  I  haven't  a  penny  of  my  own,  —  I  never  have  a  week 
after  I  receive  my  allowance,  —  so  I  must  only  do  the  best 
I  can.  If  I  don't  like  it,  you  know,  I  can  come  home.  It 
is  a  great  thing  to  know,  Letty,  that  you  will  be  glad  to 
have  me,  whether  I  am  well  dressed  or  very  much  the  re- 
verse." 

"  Exactly.  And  there  is  this  one  comfort  also,  that  you 
look  well  in  anything.  By  the  bye,  you  must  have  a  maid. 
You  shall  take  Sarah,  and  we  can  get  some  one  in  until 
you  come  back  to  us.  That"  —  with  a  smile  —  "  will  pre- 
vent your  leaving  us  too  long  to  our  own  devices.  You 
will  understand  without  telling  what  a  loss  the  fair  Sarah 
will  be." 

"  You  are  determined  I  shall  make  my  absence  felt," 
says  Molly,  with  a  half  smile.  "  Eeally,  Letty,  I  don't 


"  But  I  do,"  says  Letty.  "  I  don't  choose  you  to  be  one 
whit  behind  any  one  else  at  Herst.  Without  doubt  they 
will  beat  you  in  the  matter  of  clothes;  but  what  of  that? 
I  have  known  many  titled  people  have  a  fine  disregard  of 
apparel." 

"  So  have  I,"  returns  Molly,  gayly.  "  Indeed,  were  I  a 
man,  possessed  with  a  desire  to  be  mistaken  for  a  lord,  I 
would  go  to  the  meanest  '  old  clo  '  shop  and  purchase  there 
the  seediest  garments  and  the  most  dilapidated  hat  (with 
a  tendency  toward  greenness),  and  a  pair  of  boots  with  a 
patch  on  the  left  side,  and,  having  equipped  myself  in 
them,  saunter  down  the  '  shady  side  of  Pall  Mall  '  with  a 
sure  and  certain  conviction  that  I  was  '  quite  the  thing.  ' 
Should  my  ambitious  longings  soar  as  high  as  a  dukedom, 
I  would  add  to  the  above  costume  a  patch  on  the  right 
boot  as  well,  and—  questionable  linen." 

"  Well,"  says  Letitia,  with  a  sigh,  "  I  hope  Marcia  is  a 
nice  girl,  and  that  she  will  be  kind  to  you." 

"So  do  I,"  —  with  a  shrug,  —  "but  from  her  writing  I 
am  almost  sure  she  isn't." 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  103 


CHAPTEE  X. 

"  What  a  dream  was  here ! 
Methought  a  serpent  ate  my  heart, 
And  you  sat  smiling  at  his  cruel  prey." 

— Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

LONG,  low  terraces  bathed  in  sunshine ;  a  dripping,  sob- 
bing fountain ;  great  masses  of  glaring  flowers  that  mix 
their  reds  and  yellows  in  hideous  contrast  and  sicken  the 
beholder  with  a  desire  for  change;  emerald  lawns  that 
grow  and  widen  as  the  eye  endeavors  vainly  to  grasp  them, 
thrown  into  bold  relief  by  the  rich  foliage,  all  brown,  and 
green,  and  red,  and  bronze-tinged,  that  spreads  behind 
them ;  while  beyond  all  these,  as  far  as  sight  can  reach, 
great  swelling  parks  show  here  and  there,  alive  with  deer, 
that  toss  and  fret  their  antlered  heads,  throwing  yet 
another  charm  into  the  already  glorious  scene. 

Such  is  Herst  Jtoy&l,  as  it  stands,  a  very  castle  in  its 
pride  of  birth.  On  one  side  the  "new  wing "  holds  promi- 
nence, so  called,  although  fully  a  century  has  passed  since 
mason's  hand  has  touched  it ;  on  the  other  is  a  suspicion 
of  heavy  Gothic  art.  Behind,  the  taste  of  the  Elizabethan 
era  holds  full  sway;  in  front  (forgetful  of  time)  uprears 
itself  the  ancient  tower  that  holds  the  first  stones  in  all  its 
strength  and  stately  dignity ;  while  round  it  the  sympa- 
thetic ivy  clings,  and,  pressing  it  in  its  long  arms,  whis- 
pers, "  Courage." 

Upon  the  balcony  the  sleepy  peacocks  stand,  too  indo- 
lent to  unfurl  their  gorgeous  plumage,  looking  in  their 
quiet  like  statues  placed  at  intervals  between  the  stone 
vases  of  scarlet  geraniums  and  drooping  ferns  that  go  to 
adorn  it. 

There  is  a  dead  calm  over  all  the  house ;  no  sound  of  life 
beyond  the  indistinct  hum  of  irrepressible  nature  greets 
the  ear ;  all  is  profoundly  still. 

The  click  of  high-heeled  shoes,  the  unmistakable  rustle 
of  silk,  and  the  peacocks,  with  a  quick  flutter,  raise  their 
heads,  as  though  to  acknowledge  the  approach  of  their  mis- 
tress. 

Stepping  from  o-ne  of  the  windows,  thereby  displaying 
to  the  unobservant  air  an  instep  large  but  exquisitely 


-  04  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

arched,  Marcia  Amherst  comes  slowly  up  to  where  the  lazj 
fowl  are  dreaming.  Almost  unconsciously  (because  her 
face  is  full  of  troubled  thought),  or  perhaps  a  little  venge- 
f ully,,  she  flicks  the  one  nearest  to  her  with  the  handker- 
chief she  carries  loosely  in  her  hand,  until,  with  a  discord- 
ant scream,  it  rouses  itself,  and,  spreading  its  tail  to  its 
fullest,  glances  round  with  conscious  pride. 

"  That  is  all  you  are  good  for,"  says  Marcia  out  loud, 
contemptuously. 

Her  voice  is  singularly  clear,  but  low  and  trainante.  She 
is  tall  and  very  dark,  with  rich  wavy  black  hair  and  eyes 
of  the  same  hue,  deep  and  soft  as  velvet.  Her  nose  is 
Grecian ;  her  lips  a  trifle  thin.  She  is  distinctly  handsome, 
but  does  not  so  much  as  border  on  the  beautiful. 

As  she  turns  from  the  showy  bird  with  a  little  shrug  of 
disdain  at  its  vanity  or  of  disgust  at  its  odious  cry,  she 
finds  herself  face  to  face  with  a  young  man  who  has  fol- 
lowed almost  in  her  footsteps. 

He,  too,  is  tall  and  dark,  and  not  altogether  unlike  her. 
But  his  face  shows  the  passion  that  hers  rather  conceals 
than  lacks,  and,  though  sufficiently  firm,  is  hardly  as  de- 
termined as  hers.  There  is  also  a  certain  discontent  about 
the  lower  part  of  the  jaw  in  which  she  is  wanting,  and 
there  are  two  or  three  wrinkles  on  his  forehead,  of  which 
her  broad,  low  brow  is  innocent. 

"Well,  Philip?"  she  says,  anxiously,  as  he  reaches  her 
side. 

"  Oh,  it  is  of  no  use,"  he  replies,  with  a  quick  frown, 
"  I  could  not  get  up  my  courage  to  the  sticking-point,  and 
if  I  had  1  firmly  believe  it  would  only  have  smashed  my 
cause  the  more  completely.  Debt  is  his  one  abhorrence, 
or  rather — he  has  so  many — his  deepest.  To  ask  for  that 
two  thousand  pounds  would  be  my  ruin." 

"  I  wish  I  had  it  to  give  you,"  she  says,  gently,  laying  her 
hand — a  very  beautiful  hand,  but  not  small — upon  his  arm. 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear,"  replies  he,  lightly,  "but  your 
good  wishes  do  not  get  me  out  of  my  hobble.  Money  I 
must  have  within  seven  days,  and  money  I  have  not.  And 
if  our  grandfather  discovers  my  delinquencies  it  will  be  all 
UP  with  me.  By  the  bye,  Marcia,  I  can  hardly  expect  you 
to  sympathize  with  me,  as  that  would  be  so  much  the 
better  for  you,  eh?" 

" "Nothing  the  better,"  says  Mnrm.  calmly  ;  "it  would 
De  always  the  same  thing,  I  afcould  share  with  you." 


'  MOLL  Y  RA  WH.  10S 

**  What  a  stake  it  is  to  play  for !  "  says  the  young  man, 
wearily,  with  a  distasteful  gesture.  "Is  even  twenty 
thousand  pounds  a  year  worth  it? — the  perpetual  paying 
court,  every  day,  and  all  day  long?  Sometimes  I  doubt  it. 

"  It  is  well  worth  it/'  says  Marcia,  firmly.  "  How  can 
you  doubt  it?  All  the  good  this  world  contains  might  be 
written  under  the  name  of  'money/  There  is  no  happi- 
ness without  it." 

"  There  is  love,  however,  and  contentment." 

"  Don't  believe  it.  Love  may  be  purchased;  and  as  for 
contentment,  there  is  no  such  thing.  It  is  a  dream,  a 
fable,  a  pretty  story  that  babes  may  swallow."  , 

"  Yet  they  tell  us  money  is  the  root  of  all  evil." 

"  Not  money,  but  the  love  of  it,"  replies  she,  quickly. 
"Do  not  lose  heart,  Philip;  he  cannot  last  forever;  and 
this  week  how  ill  he  has  been !  " 

"So  he  has,  poor  old  wretch,"  her  companion  inter- 
rupts her  hastily.  "  "Well,  I  have  just  one  clear  week  be- 
fore me,  and  then, — I  suppose  I  had  better  have  recourse 
to  my  friends,  the  Jews.  That  will  be  a  risky  thing,  if 
you  like,  under  the  circumstances.  Should  he  find  that 
out " 

"  How  can  he?  They  are  always  so  secret,  so  safe.  Bet- 
ter do  it  than  eat  your  heart  out.  And  who  is  to  betray 
you?" 

"  You."    With  a  laugh. 

"Ay,  tremble!  "  says  she,  gayly;  then  softly,  "If  that 
is  all  you  have  to  fear,  Philip,  you  are  a  happy  man.  And 
when  you  have  got  the  two  thousand  pounds,  will  you  be 
free?" 

"No,  but  comparatively  easy  for  awhile.  And  who 
knows,  by  that  time " 

"He  may  die?" 

"  Or  something  may  turn  up,"  exclaims  he,  hurriedly, 
not  looking  at  her,  and  therefore  unable  to  wonder  at  the 
stolidity  and  utter  unconcern  of  her  expression. 

At  this  moment  a  querulous,  broken  voice  comes  to  them 
from  some  inner  room.  "  Marcia,  Marcia!  "  it  calls,  with 
trembling  impatience ;  and,  with  a  last  flick  at  the  unof- 
fending peacock,  she  turns  to  go,  yet  lingers,  as  though 
loath  to  leave  her  companion. 

"  Good-bye, — for  awhile,"  she  says. 

"  Good-bye,"  replies  he,  and,  clasping  her  lightly  round 
the  waist,  presses  a  kiss  upon  her  cheek, — not  upon  her  lips. 


10$  MOLL  y  £1A  Wtf. 

"  Yon  will  be  here  when  I  return?  "  asks  she,  turning  n 
face  slightly  flushed  by  his  carees  toward  him  as  she  stands 
with  one  foot  placed  upon  the  bow-window  sill  preparatory 
to  entering  the  room  beyond.  There  is  hope  fully  ex- 
pressed in  her  tone. 

"  No,  I  think  not,"  replies  he,  carelessly.  ;'  The  after- 
noon is  fine ;  I  want  to  ride  into  Longley,  for "  But 

to  the  peacocks  alone  is  the  excuse  made  known,  as  Marcia 
has  disappeared. 

Close  to  a  fire,  although  the  day  is  oppressively  warm, 
and  wrapped  in  a  flannel  dressing-gown,  sits  an  old  man, 
— old,  and  full  of  the  snarling  captiousness  that  makes 
some  white  hairs  hideous.  A  tall  man,  with  all  the  remains 
of  great  beauty,  but  a  singularly  long  nose  (as  a  rule  one 
should  always  avoid  a  person  with  a  long  nose),  that  per- 
haps once  might  have  added  a  charm  to  the  bold,  aristo- 
cratic face  it  adorned,  but  now  in  its  last  days  is  only  sug- 
gestive of  birds  of  prey,  being  peaky  and  astonishingly  fine 
toward  the  point.  Indeed,  looking  at  it  from  a  side-view, 
one  finds  one's  self  instinctively  wondering  how  much 
leaner  it  can  get  before  kindly  death  steps  in  to  put  a  stop 
to  its  growth.  And  yet  it  matches  well  with  the  lips, 
which,  curving  downward,  and  thin  to  a  fault,  either  from 
pain  or  temper,  denote  only  ill-will  toward  fellow-man,  to- 
gether with  a  certain  cruelty  that  takes  its  keenest  pleasure 
in  another's  mental  suffering. 

Great  piercing  eyes  gleam  out  from  under  heavy  brows, 
and,  looking^  straight  at  one,  still  withhold  their  inmost 
thoughts.  Intellect  (wrongly  directed,  it  may  be,  yet  of 
no  mean  order)  and  a  fatal  desire  for  power  sparkle  in 
them ;  while  the  disappointment,  the  terrible  self -accusing 
sadness  that  must  belong  to  the  closing  of  such  a  life  as 
comes  of  such  a  temperament  as  his,  lingers  round  his 
mouth.  He  is  meagre,  shrunken, — altogether  unlovely. 

Now,  as  he  glances  up  at  Marcia,  a  pettishness,  born  of 
the  sickness  that  has  been  consuming  him  for  the  past 
week,  is  his  all-prevailing  expression.  Raising  a  hand 
fragile  and  white  as  a  woman's,  he  beckons  her  to  his  side. 

"  How  you  dawdle !  "  he  says,  fretfully.  "  Do  you  forget 
there  are  other  people  in  the  world "  besides  yourself? 
Where  have  you  been?" 

"Have  I  been  long,  dear?"  says  Marcia,  evasively,  with 


"    MOLLY  BAWi*  107 

the  tenderest  air  of  solicitude,  shaking  up  his  pillows  and 
smoothing  the  crumpled  dressing-gown  with  careful 
fingers.  "  Have  you  missed  me?  And  yet  only  a  few 
minutes  have  really  passed." 

"Where  have  you  been?"  reiterates  he,  irritably,  tak- 
ing no  notice  of  her  comfortable  pats  and  shakes. 

"With  Philip." 

"  Ay,  '  with  Philip.'  Always  Philip.  I  doubt  me  the 
course  of  your  love  runs  too  smoothly  to  be  true.  And  yet 
it  was  a  happy  thought  to  keep  the  old  man's  money  well 
together."  With  a  sneer. 

"  Dear  grandpapa,  we  did  not  think  of  money,  but 
that  we  love  each  other." 

"  Love — pish!  do  not  talk  to  me  of  it.  I  thought  you 
too  shrewd,  Marcia,  to  be  misled  by  a  mirage.  It  is  a 
myth, — no  more, — a  sickening,  mawkish  tale.  Had  he  no 
prospects,  and  were  you  penniless,  I  wonder  how  far  '  love ' 
would  guide  you?" 

"To  the  end,"  says  Marcia,  quickly.  "What  hag 
money  to  do  with  it?  It  can  neither  be  bought  nor  sold. 
It  is  a  poor  affection  that  would  wither  under  poverty ;  at 
\east  it  would  have  no  fears  for  us." 

"Us, — us,"  returns  this  detestable  old  pagan,  with  a 
malicious  chuckle.  "How  sure  we  are!  how  positive! 
ready  to  risk  our  all  upon  our  lover's  truth !  Yet,  were  I 
to  question  this  faithful  lover  upon  the  same  subject,  I 
fear  me  that  I  should  receive  a  widely  different  answer." 

"I  hope  not,  dear,"  says  Marcia,  gently,  speaking  in 
her  usual  soft,  low  tone.  Yet  a  small  cold  finger  has  been 
laid  upon  her  heart.  A  dim  foreboding  crushes  her.  Only 
a  little  pallor,  so  slight  as  to  be  imperceptible  to  her  tor- 
mentor, falls  across  the  upper  part  of  her  face  and  tells 
how  blood  has  been  drawn.  Yet  it  is  hardly  the  mere 
piercing  of  the  skin  that  hurts  us  most ;  it  is  in  the  dark 
night  hours  when  the  wound  rankles  that  our  agony  comes 
home  to  us. 

"When  is  this  girl  coming?"  asks  the  old  man.  pres- 
ently, in  a  peevish  tone,  vexed  that,  as  far  as  he  can  tell,  his 
arrow  has  overshot  the  mark.  "  I  might  have  known  she 
would  have  caught  at  the  invitation." 

"  On  the  twenty-seventh, — the  day  you  mentioned.  She 
must  be  anxious  to  make  your  acquaintance,  as  she  has  not 
lost  an  hour,"  says  Marcia,  in  a  tone  that  might  mean  any- 
tiling.  "But" — sweetly — "why  distress  yourself,  dear, 


108  MOLL  y  BA  Wtf. 

by  having  her  at  all?  If  it  disturbs  your  peace  in  the 
very  least,  why  not  write  to  put  her  off,  at  all  events  until 
you  fe?l  stronger?  Why  upset  yourself,  now  you  are  get- 
ting on  so  nicely?"  As  she  speaks  she  lets  her  clear,  calm 
eyes  rest  fully  upon  the  hopeless  wreck  of  what  once  was 
strong  before  her.  No  faintest  tinge  of  insincerity  mars 
the  perfect  kindliness  of  her  tone.  "  Why  not  let  us  three 
remain  as  we  are,  alone  together?  " 

"  What!  "  cries  Mr.  Amherst,  angrily,  and  with  excite- 
ment, raising  himself  in  his  chair,  "am  I  to  shut  myself 
up  within  these  four  walls  with  nothing  to  interest  me 
from  day  to  day  beyond  your  inane  twaddle  ?  No,  I  thank 
you.  I  will  have  the  house  full, — full — do  you  hear, 
Marcia? — and  that  without  delay?  Do  you  want  me  to  die 
of  ennui  in  this  bare  barrack  of  a  place?" 

"Well,  do  not  make  yourself  ill,  dear,"  says  Marcia, 
with  an  admirably  executed  sigh.  "  It  shall  be  as  you 
wish,  of  course.  I  only  spoke  for  your  good, — because — I 
suppose  (being  the  only  near  relative  I  have  on  earth  be- 
sides my  mother),  I — love  you." 

'You  are  very  good,"  replies  the  old  man,  grimly., 
utterly  untouched  by  all  this  sweetness,  "but  I  will  havt- 
my  own  way.  And  don't  you  '  dear '  me  again.  Do  you 
hear,  Marcia?  I  won't  have  it :  it  reminds  me  of  my  wife. 
Pah!" 


The  days  fade,  the  light  wanes,  and  night's  cold  dewy 
mantle  falls  thickly  on  the  longing  earth. 

Marcia,  throwing  wide  her  casements,  stretches  out  her 
arms  to  the  moonlight  and  bathes  her  white  face  and 
whiter  neck  in  the  cool  flood  that  drenches  all  the  quiet 
garden. 

There  is  peace  everywhere,  and  rest,  and  happy  sleep, 
but  not  for  Marcia;  for  days,  for  weeks,  she  has  been 
haunted  by  the  fear  tfcat  Philip's  affection  for  her  is  but  a 
momentary  joy,  that,  swiftly  as  the  minutes  fly,  so  it 
dwindles.  To-night  this  fear' is  strong  upon  her. 

Not  by  his  word,  not  by  his  actions,  but  by  the  subtle 
nothings  that,  having  no  name,  yet  are,  and  go  to  make  up 
the  dreaded  whole,  has  this  thought  been  forced  upon  her. 
The  cooling  glance,  the  suppressed  restlessness,  the  sudden 
lack  of  conversation,  the  kind  but  unloving  touch,  the 
total  absence  of  a  lover's  jealousy, — all  go  to  prove  the 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  105 

hateful  truth.  And  now  her  grandfather's  sneer  of  the 
morning  comes  back  to  torture  her  and  make  assurance 
doubly  sure.  Yet  hardly  three  months  have  passed  since 
Philip  Shadwell  asked  her  to  be  his  wife. 

"  Already  his  love  wanes,"  she  murmurs.,  turning  up  her 
troubled  face  and  eyes,  too  sad  for  tears,  to  the  starry  vault 
above  her,  where  the  small  luminous  bodies  blink  and 
tremble  and  take  no  heed  of  a  ridiculous  love-tale,  more  or 
lese.  Her  tone  is  low  and  despairing ;  and  as  she  speaks 
she  beats  her  hands  together  slowly,  noiselessly,  yet  none 
the  less  passionately. 

In  vain  she  tries  to  convince  herself  her  doubts  are 
groundless,  to  compel  herself  to  believe  her  arms  are  full, 
when  in  her  heart  she  knows  she  but  presses  to  her  bosom 
an  empty,  fleeting  shadow.  The  night's  dull  vapors  have 
closed  upon  her,  and,  while  exaggerating  her  misery,  still 
open  her  eyes  with  kind  cruelty  to  the  end  that  surely 
awaits  her. 

So  she  sits  hugging  her  fears  until  the  day  breaks,  and 
early  morning,  peeping  in  at  her,  wafts  her  a  kiss  as  it  flies 
over  the  lawn  and  field  and  brooklet.  Then,  wearied  by 
her  watching,  she  flings  herself  upon  her  bed,  and,  gaining 
a  short  but  dreamless  sleep,  wakens  refreshed,  to  laugh  at 
her  misgivings  of  the  night  before, — at  her  grandfather's 
hints, — at  aught  that  speaks  to  her  of  Philip's  falseness. 

Despair  follows  closely  upon  night.  Hope  comes  in  the 
train  of  day.  And  Marcia,  standing  erect  before  her  g)ass, 
with  her  beautiful  figure  drawn  to  its  full  height  and  hei 
handsome  head  erect,  gazes  long  and  earnestly  at  the  re- 
flection therein.  At  last  the  deep  flush  of  satisfaction  dyee 
her  cheeks ;  all  her  natural  self-reliance  and  determination 
return  to  her ;  with  a  little  laugh  at  her  own  image  (on 
which  she  builds  her  hopes),  she  defies  fate,  and,  running 
down  the  staircase  with  winged  feet,  finds  herself  on  the 
last  step,  almost  in  Philip's  arms. 

"  Abroad  so  early !  "  he  says,  with  a  smile ;  and  the  kind- 
liness of  his  tone,  the  more  than  kindness  of  his  glance, 
confirm  her  hopes  of  the  morning.  She  is  looking  very 
pretty,  and  Philip  likes  pretty  women,  hence  the  kindly 
smile.  And  yet,  though  he  might  have  done  so  without 
rebuke  (perhaps  because  of  that),  he  forgot  to  kiss  her. 
''You  are  the  early  bird,  and  you  have  caught  me,"  he 
says.  "  I  can  only  hope  you  will  not  make  your  breakfast 
efi  me.  See," — holding  out  to  her  an  unclosed  lettejy— 


HO  MOLL  Y  BA  IV N. 

"the  deed  is  done.  I  have  written  to  my  solicitor  to  get 
me  the  money  from  Lazarus  and  Harty." 

"  Oh,  Philip!  I  have  been  thinking,"  she  says,  follow- 
ing him  into  the  library,  "  and  now  it  seems  to  me  a  risk. 
You  know  his  horror  of  Jews, — you  know  how  he  speaks 
of  your  own  father  and  his  unfortunate  dealings  with 
them.  Yesterday  I  felt  brave,  and  advised  you,  as  I  fear, 
wrongly;  to-day " 

"  I  have  been  thinking  it  over  too," — lighting  the  taper 
on  the  table,  and  applying  the  sealing-wax  to  the  flame, — 
"  and  now  it  seems  to  me  the  only  course  left  open.  And 
yet " — speaking  gayly,  but  pausing  as  the  wax  falls  upon 
the  envelope — "perhaps — who  knows? — I  maybe  sealing 
my  own  fate/' 

"You  make  me  superstitious.  Why  imagine  horrors? 
Yet  if  you  have  any  doubts,  Philip," — laying  one  shapely 
white  finger  upon  the  letter, — "  do  not  send  it.  Some- 
thing tells  me  to  warn  you.  And,  besides,  are  you  quite 
sure  they  will  lend  you  the  money?" 

"  They  will  hardly  refuse  a  paltry  two  thousand  to  the 
ieir  of  Herst  Koyal." 

'  But  you  are  not  the  heir." 

'In  the  eyes  of  the  world  I  am." 

'  And  yet  they  know  it  can  be  left  to  any  one  else.*' 

'  To  you,  for  instance." 


herited.     This  cousin  that   is  coming, — Eleanor   Masse- 
reene, — she,  too,  is  his  grandchild/' 

As  a  rule,  when  speaking  of  those  we  hate,  quite  as  much 
M  when  speaking  of  those  we  love,  we  use  the  pronoun 
alone.  Mr.  Amherst  is  "  he  "  always  to  his  relatives. 

"  Whatj  Can  you  believe  it  possible  a  little  uneducated 
country  girl,  with  probably  a  snub  nose,  thick  boots,  and 
no  manners  to  speak  of,  can  cut  you  out?  Marcia,  you 
grow  modest.  Why,  even  I,  a  man,  can  see  her  in  my 
mind's  eye,  with  a  freckled  complexion  (he  hates  freckles)", 
and  a  frightened  gasp  between  each  word,  and  a  whole- 
eome  horror  of  wine,  and  a  general  air  of  hoping  the  earth 
will  open  presently  to  swallow  her  up." 

'  But  how  if  she  is  totally  different  from  all  this'  " 

"  She  won't  be  different.  Her  father  was  a  wild  Irish. 
man.  Besides,  I  have  seen  her  sort  over  and  over  again, 


MOLLY  BAWN:  11} 

and  it  is  positive  cruelty  to  animals  to  drag  the  poor  crea* 
tures  from  their  dull  homes  into  the  very  centre  of  lifa 
and  gayety.  They  never  can  make  up  their  minds  whethei 
the  butler  that  announces  dinner  is  or  is  not  the  latest  ar- 
rival ;  and  they  invariably  say,  '  No,  thank  you/  when 
asked  to  have  anything.  To  them  the  fish-knife  is  a  thing 
unknown  and  afternoon  tea  the  wildest  dissipation/' 

"  Well,  I  can  only  hope  and  trust  she  will  turn  out  just 
what  you  say/'  says  Marcia,  laughing. 

Four  days  later,  meeting  her  on  his  way  to  the  stables, 
he  throws  her  a  letter  from  his  solicitor. 

"It  is  all  right,"  he  says,  and  goes  on  a  step  or  two,  as 
though  hurried,  while  she  hastily  runs  her  eyes  over  it. 

"Well,  and  now  your  mind  is  at  rest,"  she  calls  after 
him,  as  she  sees  the  distance  widening  between  them. 

"  For  the  present,  yes." 

"Well,  here,  take  your  letter." 

"Tear  it  up;  I  don't  want  it,"  he  returns,  and  disap- 
pears round  the  angle  of  the  house. 

Her  fingers  form  themselves  as  though  about  to  obey 
him  and  tear  the  note  in  two.  Then  she  pauses. 

"He  may  want  it,"  she  says  to  herself,  hesitating. 
"  Business  letters  are  sometimes  useful  afterward.  I  will 
keep  it  for  him." 

She  slips  it  into  her  pocket,  and  for  the  time  being 
thinks  no  more  of  it.  That  night,  as  she  undresses,  find- 
ing it  again,  she  throws  it  carelessly  into  a  drawer,  where 
it  lies  for  many  days  forgotten. 


It  is  the  twentieth  of  August :  in  seven  days  more  the 
"  little  country  girl  with  freckles  and  a  snub  nose  "  will  be 
at  Herst  Royal,  longing  "for  the  earth  to  open  and  swal- 
low her  up." 

To  Philip  her  coming  is  a  matter  of  the  most  perfect  in- 
difference. To  Marcia  it  is  an  event, — and  an  unpleasant 
one. 

When,  some  three  years  previously,  Marcia  Amherst 
consented  to  leave  the  mother  she  so  sincerely  loved  to 
tend  an  old  and  odious  man,  she  did  so  at  his  request  and 
with  her  mother's  full  sanction,  through  desire  of  the  gold 
that  was  to  be  (it  was  tacitly  understood)  the  reward  of  her 
devotion.  There  was,  however,  another  condition  imposed 


112  MOLLY  BAWN. 

upon  her  before  she  might  come  to  Herst  and  take  up 
permanent  quarters  there.  This  wa*  the  entire  forsaking 
of  her  mother,  her  people,  and  the  land  of  her  birth. 

To  this  also  there  was  open  agreement  made:  which 
agreement  was  in  private  broken.  She  was  quite  clever 
enough  to  manage  a  clandestine  correspondence  without 
fear  of  discovery;  but  letters,  however  frequent,  hardly 
make  up  for  enforced  absence  from  those  we  love,  and 
Marcia's  affection  for  her  Italian  mother  was  the  one  pure 
sentiment  in  her  rather  scheming  disposition.  Yet  the 
love  of  riches,  that  is  innate  in  all,  was  sufficiently  strong 
in  her  to  bear  her  through  with  her  task. 

But  now  the  fear  that  this  new-comer,  this  interloper, 
may,  after  all  her  detested  labor,  by  some  fell  chance  be- 
come a  recipient  of  the  spoil  (no  matter  in  how  small  a 
degree),  causes  her  trouble. 

Of  late,  too,  she  has  not  been  happy.  Philip's  coldness 
has  been  on  the  increase.  He  himself,  perhaps,  is  hardly 
aware  of  the  change.  But  what  woman  loving  but  feels 
the  want  of  love  ?  And  at  times  her  heart  is  racked  with 
passionate  grief. 

Now,  as  she  and  her  lip-love  stand  side  by  side  in  the 
oriel  window  that  overlooks  the  graveled  path  leading  into 
the  gardens,  the  dislike  to  her  cousin's  coming  burns  hotly 
within  her. 

Outside,  in  his  bath  chair,  wheeled  up  and  down  by  a 
long-suffering  attendant,  goes  Mr.  Amherst,  in  happy 
ignorance  of  the  four  eyes  that  watch  his  coming  and  going 
with  such  distaste. 

Up  and  down,  up  and  down  he  goes,  his  weakly  head 
bent  upon  his  chest,  his  fierce  eyes  roving  restlessly  to  and 
fro.  He  is  still  invalid  enough  to  prefer  the  chair  to  the 
taore  treacherous  aid  of  his  stick. 

"  He  reminds  me  of  nothing  so  much  as  an  Egyptian 
mummy,"  says  Philip,  presently:  "  he  looks  so  hard,  and 
shriveled,  and  unreal.  Toothless,  too." 

"  He  ought  to  die,"  says  Marcia,  with  perfect  calmness, 
as  though  she  had  suggested  the  advisability  of  his  going 
for  a  longer  drive. 

"Die!  "  With  a  slight  start,  turning  to  look  at  her. 
"  Ah !  yes,  of  course.  But  " — with  a  rather  forced  laugh — 
he  won't,  take  my  word  for  it.  Old  gentlemen  with  un- 
limited means  arid  hungry  heirs  live  forever." 

"  He  has  lived  long'enough/'  saya  Marcia^,  still  ia  tJw 


,  MOLL  Y  BA  WN,  Hg 

game  slow,  calculating  tone.  "  Of  what  use  is  he?  Who 
cares  for  him?  What  good  does  he  do  in  each  twenty-four 
hours?  He  is  merely  taking  up  valuable  room, — keeping 
what  should  by  right  be  yours  and  mine.  And,  Philip/' 
laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm  to  insure  his  attention, — "  I 
understand  the  mother  of  this  girl  who  is  coming  was  his 
favorite  daughter." 

"  Well,"  surprised  at  her  look  and  tone,  which  have 
both  grown  intense, — "  that  is  not  my  fault.  You  need 
not  cast  such  an  upbraiding  glance  on  me." 

"  What  if  he  should  alter  his  will  in  her  favor?  More 
unlikely  things  have  happened.  I  cannot  divest  myself  of 
fear  when  I  think  of  her.  Should  he  at  this  late  hour  re- 
pent him  of  his  injustice  toward  his  dead  daughter,  he 

might "  She  pauses.  "But  rather  than  that " 

Here  she  pauses  again ;  and  her  lids  falling  somewhat  over 
her  eyes,  leave  them  small  but  wonderfully  deep. 

"What,  Marcia?"  asks  Philip,  with  a  sudden  anxiety 
he  would  willingly  suppress,  were  it  not  for  his  strong  de- 
sire to  learn  what  her  thoughts  may  be. 

For  a  full  minute  she  makes  him  no  reply,  and  then,  as 
though  hardly  aware  of  his  question,  goes  on  meditatively. 

"  Philip,  how  frail  he  is !  "  she  says,  almost  in  a  whisper, 
as  the  chair  goes  creaking  beneath  the  window.  "  Yet 
what  a  hold  he  has  on  life !  And  it  is  /  give  him  that 
hold, — /  am  the  rope  to  which  he  clings.  At  night,  when 
sleep  is  on  him  and  lethargy  succeeds  to  sleep,  mine  is  the 
duty  to  rouse  him  and  minister  such  medicines  as  charm 
him  back  to  life.  Should  I  chance  to  forget,  his  dreams 
might  end  in  death.  Last  night,  as  I  sat  by  his  bedside,  I 
thought,  were  I  to  forget, — what  then?" 

"Ay,  what  then?  Of  what  are  you  thinking?"  cries 
her  companion,  in  a  tone  of  suppressed  horror,  resisting 
by  a  passionate  movement  the  spell  she  had  almost  cast 
upon  him  by  the  power  of  her  low  voice  and  deep,  dark 
eyes.  "  Would  you  kill  the  old  man?  " 

"  Nay,  it  is  but  to  forget,"  replies  she,  dreamily,  her 
whole  mind  absorbed  in  her  subject,  unconscious  of  the 
effect  she  is  producing.  She  has  not  turned  her  eyes  upon 
him  (else  surely  the  terrible  fear  and  shrinking  in  his  must 
have  warned  her  to  go  no  farther),  but  has  her  gaze  fixed 
rather  on  the  hills  and  woods  and  goodly  plains  for  which 
she  is  not  only  willing  but  eager  to  sell  all  that  is  best  of 
her.  "  To  remain  passive,  and  then  " — straightening  hei 


114  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

hand  in  the  direction  of  the  glorious  view  that  spreads 
itself  before  them — "all  this  would  be  ours." 

"  Murderess!  "  cries  the  young  man,  in  a  low,  concen- 
trated tone,  his  voice  vibrating  with  disgust  and  loathing 
as  he  falls  back  from  her  a  step  or  two. 

The  word  thrills  her.  With  a  start  she  brings  herself 
back  to  the  present  moment,  turns  to  look  at  him,  and, 
looking  slowly,  learns  the  truth.  The  final  crash  has 
come,  her  fears  are  realized ;  she  has  lost  him  forever. 

"What  is  it,  Philip?  what  word  have  you  used?"  she 
asks,  with  nervous  vehemence,  as  though  only  half  com- 
prehending; "  why  do  you  look  at  me  so  strangely?  I  have 
eaid  nothing, — nothing  that  should  make  you  shrink  from 
me." 

"You  have  said  enough," — with  a  shiver,  "too  much; 
and  your  face  said  more.  I  desire  you  never  to  speak  to 
me  on  the  subject  again." 

"  What!  you  will  not  even  hear  me?" 

"  No ;  I  am  only  thankful  I  have  found  you  out  in  time." 

"  Say  rather  for  this  lucky  chance  1  have  afforded  you  of 
breaking  off  a  detested  engagement,"  cries  she,  with  sud- 
den bitterness.  "Hypocrite!  how  long  have  you  been 
awaiting  it?" 

"You  are  talking  folly,  Marcia.  What  reason  have  I 
ever  given  you  that  you  should  make  me  such  a  speech? 
But  for  what  has  just  now  happened, — but  for  your  insin- 
uations  " 

"Ay," — slowly, — "you  shrink  from  hearing  your 
thoughts  put  into  words." 

'  Not  my  thoughts,"  protests  he,  vehemently. 

"No?"  searchingly,  drawing  a  step  nearer  him.  "Are 
you  sure?  Have  you  never  wished  our  grandfather  dead?" 

"  I  may  have  wished  it,"  confesses  he,  reluctantly,  as 
though  compelled  to  frankness,  "but  to  compass  my  wish 

"  If  you  have  wished  it  you  have  murdered/'  returns 
she,  with  conviction.  "You  have  craved  his  death  :  what 
is  that  but  unuttered  crime  ?  There  is  little  difference  ;  it 
is  but  one  step  the  more  in  the  same  direction.  And  I, — 
in  what  way  am  I  the  greater  sinner  ?  I  have  but  said 
aloud  what  you  whisper  to  your  heart." 

/'  Be  silent/'  cries  he,  fiercely.  "  All  your  sophistry 
fails  to  make  me  a  partner  in  your  guilt." 

"  I  am  the  honester  of  the  two,"  she  goes  on,  rapidly, 


MOLL  Y  £A  Wtf.  US 

unheeding  his  anger.  "  As  long  as  the  accursed  thing  ia 
unspoken,  you  see  no  harm  in  it;  once  it  makes  itself 
heard,  you  start  and  sicken,  because  it  hurts  your  tender 
susceptibilities.  Yet  hear  me,  Philip/'  Suddenly  chang- 
ing her  tone  of  passionate  scorn  to  one  of  entreaty  as  pas- 
sionate, "  Do  not  cast  me  off  for  a  few  idle  words.  They 
have  done  no  harm.  Let  us  be  as  we  were." 

"Impossible,"  replies  he  coldly,  unloosing  her  fingers 
from  his  arm,  all  the  dislike  and  loathing  of  which  he  is 
capable  compressed  into  the  word.  "  You  have  destroyed 
my  trust  in  you." 

A  light  that  means  despair  flashes  across  Marcia's  face  ag 
she  stands  in  all  her  dark  but  rather  evil  beauty  before 
him ;  then  suddenly  she  falls  upon  her  knees. 

"Philip,  have  pity  on  me!"  she  cries  painfully.  "I 
love  you, — I  have  only  you.  Here  in  this  house  I  am 
alone,  a  stranger  in  my  own  land.  Do  not  you  too  tarn 
from  me.  Ah !  you  should  be  the  last  to  condemn,  for  if  1 
dreamed  of  sin  it  was  for  your  sake.  And  after  all,  what 
did  I  say?  The  thought  that  this  girl's  coming  might 
upset  the  dream  of  years  agitated  me,  and  I  spoke — I — but 
I  meant  nothing — nothing."  She  drags  herself  on  hei 
knees  nearer  to  him  and  attempts  to  take  Us  hand.  "  Dar- 
ling, do  not  be  so  stern.  Forgive  me.  If  you  cast  me  off, 
Philip,  you  will  kill  not  only  my  body,  but  all  that  is  good 
in  me." 

"Dp  not  touch  me/'  returns  he,  harshly,  the  vein  of 
'brutality  in  him  coming  to  the  surface  as  he  pushes  her 
from  him  and  with  slight  violence  unclasps  her  clinging 
fingers. 

The  action  is  in  itself  sufficient,  but  the  look  that  ac- 
companies it — betraying  as  it  does  even  more  disgust  than 
hatred — stings  her  to  self-control.  Slowly  she  rises  to  her 
feet.  As  she  does  so,  a  spasm,  a  contraction  near  her 
heart,  causes  her  to  place  her  hand  involuntarily  against 
her  side,  while  a  dull  gray  shadow  covers  her  face. 

"You  mean,"  she  says,  speaking  with  the  utmost  diffi- 
culty, "  that  all — is  at  an  end — between  us/' 

"I  do  mean  that,"  he  answers,  very  white,  but  deter- 
mined. 

"  Then  beware !  "  she  murmurs,  in  a  low,  choked  voice. 


MOLLV  BAWtf. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"  Fou  stood  before  me  like  a  thought, 
A  dream  remembered  in  a  dream." — COLERIDGE. 

IT  is  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  Heret  is  the 
richer  by  one  more  inmate.  Molly  has  arrived,  has  been 
received  by  Marcia,  has  pressed  cheeks  with  her,  has  been 
told  she  is  welcome  in  a  palpably  lying  tone,  and  finally 
has  been  conducted  to  her  bedroom.  Such  a  wonder  of  a 
bedroom  compared  with  Molly's  snug  but  modest  sanctum 
at  home, — a  very  marvel  of  white  and  blue,  and  cloudy 
virginal  muslins,  and  filled  with  innumerable  luxuries. 

Molly,  standing  in  the  centre  of  it, — unaware  that  she  is 
putting  all  its  other  beauties  to  shame — gazes  round  her  in 
silent  admiration,  appreciates  each  pretty  trifle  to  its 
fullest,  and  finally  feels  a  vague  surprise  at  the  curious 
sense  of  discontent  that  pervades  her. 

Her  reception  so  far  has  not  been  cordial.  Marcia's  cold 
unloving  eyes  have  pierced  her  and  left  a  little  cold  frozen 
spot  within  her  heart.  She  is  chilled  and  puzzled,  and 
with  all  her  strength  is  wishing  herself  home  again  at 
Brooklyn,  with  John  and  Letty,  and  all  the  merry,  tor- 
menting, kindly  children. 

"What  shall  I  do  for  you  now,  Miss  Molly?"  asks 
Sarah,  presently  breaking  in  upon  these  dismal  broodings. 
This  antiquated  but  devoted  maiden  has  stationed  herself 
at  the  farthest  end  of  the  big  room  close  to  Molly's  solitary 
trunk  (as  though  suspicious  of  lurking  thieves),  and  bears 
upon  her  countenance  a  depressed,  not  to  say  dejected,  ex- 
pression. "  Like  mistress,  like  maid,"  she,  too,  is  filled 
with  the  gloomiest  forebodings. 

"  Open  my  trunk  and  take  out  my  clothes,"  says  Molly, 
making  no  effort  at  disrobing,  beyond  a  melancholy  at- 
tempt at  pulling  off  her  gloves,  finger  by  finger. 

Sarah  does  as  she  is  bidden. 
1  'Tis  a  tremenjous  house,  Mies  Molly." 

"  Very.     It  is  a  castle,  not  a  house." 

"  There's  a  deal  of  servants  in  it." 

"  Yes,"  absently. 

"  Leastways  as  far  as  I  could  judge  with  looking  through 
the  corners  of  my  eyes  as  I  came  along  them  big  passages, 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  \  J? 

From  every  door  a'most  there  popped  a  iiead  bedizened 
with  gaudy  ribbons,  and  I  suppose  the  bodies  was  behind 
'em." 

"  Let  us  hope  BO,  Sarah."  Rising,  and  laughing  rather 
hysterically.  "  The  bare  idea  that  those  mysterious  heads 
should  lack  a  decent  finish  fills  me  with  the  liveliest 
horror."  Then,  in  a  brighter  tone,  "Why,  what  is  the 
matter  with  you,  Sarah?  You  look  as  if  you  had  fallen 
into  the  very  lowest  depths  of  despair/' 

"  Not  so  much  that  as  lonesome,  miss;  they  all  seem  so 
rich  and  grand  that  I  feel  myself  out  of  place." 

Molly  smiles  a  little.  After  all,  in  spite  of  the  differ- 
ence in  their  positions,  it  is  cloar  to  her  that  she  and  her 
maid  share  pretty  much  the  same  fears. 

"  There  was  a  very  proud  look  about  the  set  of  their 
caps,"  says  Sarah,  waxing  more  ancl  more  dismal.  "  Sup- 
pose they  were  to  be  uncivil  to  me,  Miss  Molly,  on  account 
of  my  being  country-reared  and  my  gowns  not  being,  as  it 
were,  in  the  height  of  the  fashion,  what  should  I  do?  It 
is  all  this,  miss,  that  is  weighing  me  down." 

"Suppose,  on  the  contrary,"  says  her  mistress,  with  a 
little  defiant  ring  in  her  tone,  stepping  to  the  glass  and 
surveying  her  beautiful  face  with  eager  scrutiny,  "you 
were  to  make  a  sensation,  and  cut  out  all  these  supercilious 
dames  in  your  hall,  how  would  it  be  then?  Come,  Sarah, 
let  me  teach  you  your  new  duties.  First  take  my  hat, 
now  my  jacket,  now " 

"  Shall  I  do  your  hair,  Miss  Molly?" 

"No,"  with  a  laugh, — "I  think  not.  I  had  one  trial 
of  you  in  that  respect;  it  was  enough/' 

"  But  all  maids  do  their  young  ladies'  hair,  don't  they, 
miss?  I  doubt  they  will  altogether  look  down  upon  me 
when  they  find  I  can't  do  even  that." 

"  I  shall  ring  for  you  every  day  when  I  come  to  dress  for 
dinner.  Once  in  my  room,  who  shall  know  whether  you 
do  my  hair  or  not?  And  I  faithfully  promise  you,  Sarah, 
to  take  such  pains  with  the  performance  myself  as  shall 
compel  every  one  in  the  house  .to  admire  it  and  envy  me 
my  excellent  maid.  '  See  Miss  Massereene's  hair ! '  they 
will  say,  in  tearful  whispers.  '  Oh,  that  I  too  could  have 
a  Sarah !  '  By  the  bye,  call  me  Miss  Massereene  for  the 
future,  not  Miss  Molly, — at  least  until  we  get  home  again." 

"  Yes,  Miss — Massereene.  Law!  it  do  sound  odd,  '  says 
fcarak,  with  a  Ijttle  respectful  laugh,  "  buL  ^: 


118  MOLLY  BAWN. 

too,  I  think.  I  do  hope  I  shan't  forget  it,  Miss  Molly. 
Perhaps  you  will  be  good  enough  to  remind  me  when  I  ga 
wrong?  " 

A  knock  at  the  door  prevents  reply.  Molly  cries  out, 
"  Come  in,"  and,  turning,  finds  herself  face  to  face  with  a 
fine  old  woman,  who  stands  erect,  and  firm,  in  spite  of  her 
many  years,  in  the  doorway.  She  is  clad  in  a  sombre 
gown  of  brown  silk,  and  has  an  old-fashioned  chain  round 
her  neck  that  hangs  far  below  her  waist,  which  is  by  no 
means  the  most  contemptible  portion  of  her. 

"  1  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Massereene ;  I  could  not  resist 
coming  to  see  if  you  were  quite  comfortable,"  she  says,  re- 
spectfully. 

"  Quite,  thank  you,"  replies  Molly,  in  a  degree  puzzled. 
"  You  are  " — smiling — "  the  housekeeper?" 

"  I  am.  And  you,  my  dear," — regarding  her  anxiously, 
— "  are  every  inch  an  Amherst,  in  spite  of  your  bonny  blue 
eyes.  You  will  forgive  the  freedom  of  my  speech,"  says 
this  old  dame,  with  an  air  that  would  not  have  disgraced  a 
duchess,  "  when  I  tell  you  I  nursed  your  mother." 

"Ah!  did  you?"  says  Molly,  flushing  a  little,  and  com- 
ing up  to  her  eagerly,  with  both  hands  extended,  to  kiss 
the  fair  old  face  that  is  smiling  so  kindly  on  her.  "  But 
how  could  one  think  it?  You  are  yet  so  fresh,  so  good  to 
look  at." 

"  Tut,  my  dear,"  says  the  old  lady,  mightily  pleased 
nevertheless.  "  I  am  old  enough  to  have  nursed  your 
grandmother.  And  now  can  I  do  anything  for  you?  " 

"You  can,"  replies  Moily,  turning  toward  Sarah,  who 
is  regarding  them  with  an  expression  that  might  at  any 
moment  mean  either  approval  or  displeasure.  "  This  is 
my  maid.  We  are  both  strangers  here.  Will  you  see  that 
she  is  made  happy?  " 

"  Come  with  me,  Sarah,  and  I  will  make  you  acquainted 
with  our  household,"  says  Mrs.  Nesbitt,  promptly. 

As  the  door  closes  behind  them,  leaving  her  to  her  own 
society,  a  rather  unhappy  shade  falls  across  Molly's  face. 

A  sensation  of  isolation — loneliness — oppresses'her.  In- 
deed, her  discouraging  reception  has  wounded  her  more 
than  she  cares  to  confess  even  to  her  own  heart.  If  they 
did  not  want  her  at  Eerst,  why  had  they  invited  her?  If 
they  did  want  her,  surely  they  might  have  met  her  with 
more  civility;  and  on  this  her  "first  visit  her  grandfather  at 
least  might  have  been  present  to  bid  her  welcome. 


MOLLY  BAWtf.  119 

Oh,  that  this  hateful  day  were  at  an  end !  Oh,  for  some 
way  of  making  the  slow  hours  run  hurriedly ! 

With  careful  fingers  she  unfastens  and  pulls  down  all 
her  lovely  hair  until  it  falls  in  rippling  masses  to  her  waist. 
As  carefully,  as  lingeringly,  she  rolls  it  up  again  into  its 
usual  artistic  knot  at  the  back  of  her  head.  With  still 
loitering  movements  she  bathes  the  dust  of  travel  from  her 
face  and  hands,  adjusts  her  soft  gray  gown,  puts  straight 
the  pale-blue  ribbon  at  her  throat,  and  now  tells  herself, 
with  a  triumphant  smile,  that  she  has  got  the  better  of  at 
least  half  an  hour  of  this  detested  day. 

Alas!  alas!  the  little  ormolu  ornament  that  ticks  with 
such  provoking  empressement  upon  the  chimney-piece  as- 
sures her  that  her  robing  has  occupied  exactly  ten  minutes 
from  start  to  finish. 

This  will  never  do.  She  cannot  well  spend  her  evening 
in  her  own  room,  no  matter  how  eagerly  she  may  desire  to 
do  so ;  so,  taking  heart  of  grace,  she  makes  a  wicked  moue 
at  her  own  rueful  countenance  in  the  looking-glass,  and, 
opening  her  door  hastily,  lest  her  courage  fail  her,  runs 
down  the  broad  oak  staircase  into  the  hall  beneath. 

Quick-witted,  as  women  of  her  temperament  always  are, 
she  remembers  the  situation  of  the  room  she  had  first  en- 
tered, and,  passing  by  all  the  other  closed  doors,  goes  into 
\t,  to  find  herself  once  more  in  Marcia's  presence. 

"Ah!  you  have  come,"  says  Miss  Amherst,  looking  up 
languidly  from  her  macrame,  with  a  frozen  smile  that  owes 
its  one  charm  to  its  brevity.  "  You  have  made  a  quick 
toilet."  With  a  supercilious  glance  at  Molly's  Quakerish 
gown,  that  somehow  fits  her  and  suits  her  to  perfection. 
**  You  are  not  fatigued?  " 

"Fatigued?"  Smiling,  with  a  view  to  conciliation. 
"  Oh,  no;  it  is  such  a  little  journey." 

"So  it  is.  How  strange  this  should  be  our  first  meet- 
ing, living  so  close  to  each  other  as  we  have  done !  My 
grandfather's  peculiar  disposition  of  course  accounts  for  it : 
he  has  quite  a  morbid  horror  of  aliens." 

"Is  one's  granddaughter  to  be  considered  an  alien?" 
asks  Molly,  with  a  laugh.  "  The  suggestion  opens  an 
enormous  field  for  reflection.  If  so,  what  are  one's 
nephews,  and  one's  nieces,  and  cousins,  first,  second,  and 
third?  Poor  third-cousins!  it  makes  one  sad  to  think  of 
them." 
,  "  I  t-hink  perhaps  Mr.  Amherst's  incivility  toward  you 


•jjO  MOLLY  SAW*'. 

arose  from  his  dislike  to  yonr  mother's  marriage.  You 
don't  mind  my  speaking,  do  you?  It  was  more  than  good 
of  you  to  come  here  at  all,  considering  the  circumstances, 
— I  don't  believe  I  could  have  been  so  forgiving,' — but  I 
know  he  felt  very  bitterly  on  the  subject,  and  does  eo  still." 

"  Does  he?  How  very  absurd  !  Amhersts  cannot  always 
marry  Amhersts,  nor  would  it  be  a  good  thing  if  they 
•could.  I  suppose,  however,  even  he  can  be  forgiving  at 
times.  Now,  for  instance,  how  did  he  get  over  your 
father's  marriage?  " 

Marcia  raises  her  head  quickly.  Her  color  deepens.  She 
turns  a  glance  full  of  displeased  suspicion  upon  her  com- 
panion, who  meets  it  calmly,  and  with  such  an  amount  of 
innocence  in  hers  as  might  have  disarmed  a  JVlachiavelli. 
Not  a  shadow  of  intention  mars  her  expression ;  her  widely- 
opened  blue  eyes  contain  only  a  desire  to  know;  and 
Marcia,  angry,  disconcerted,  and  puzzled,  lets  her  gaze  re- 
turn to  her  work.  A  dim  idea  that  it  will  not  be  so  easy 
lo  ride  rough-shod  over  this  country-bred  girl  as  she  had 
hoped  oppresses  her,  while  a  still  more  unpleasant  doubt 
rhat  her  intended  snubbing  has  recoiled  upon  her  own  head 
adds  to  her  discontent.  Partly  through  policy  and  partly 
with  a  view  to  showing  this  recreant  Molly  the  rudeness  of 
her  ways,  she  refuses  an  answer  to  her  question  and  starts 
a  different  topic  in  a  still  more  freezing  tone. 

"  You  found  your  room  comfortable.  I  hope,  and — all 
that?" 

"Quite  all  that,  thank  you,"  cordially.  "And  such  a 
pretty  room  too !  "  (She  is  unaware  as  she  speaks  that  it  is 
one  of  the  plainest  the  house  contains.)  "How  large 
everything  seems !  When  coming  down  through  all  those 
corridors  and  halls  I  very  nearly  lost  my  way.  Stupid  of 
me  was  it  not?  But  it  is  an  enormous  house,  I  can  see." 

"  Is  it?  Perhaps  so.  Very  much  the  size  of  most  coun- 
try houses,  I  should  say.  And  yet,  no  doubt,  to  a  stranger 
it  would  seem  large.  Your  own  home  is  not  so?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  If  you  could  only  see  poor  Brooklyn  in  com- 
parison !  It  is  the  prettiest  little  place  in  all  the  world,  I 
think ;  but  then  it  is  little.  It  would  require  a  tremen- 
dous amount  of  genius  to  lose  one's  self  in  Brooklyn." 

How  late  it  grows !  "  says  Marcia,  looking  at  the  clock 
and  rising.  :'  The  first  bell  ought  to  ring  soon.  Which 
would  you  prefer,— your  tea  here  or  in  your  own  room?  I 
Wways  adopt  the  latter  plan  when  the  house  is  empty,  and 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  121 

take  it  while  dressing.  By  the  bye,  you  have  not  seen — • 
Mr.  Amherst?" 

' '  My  grandfather  ?    No. " 

"  Perhaps  he  had  better  be  told  you  are  here.". 

"  Has  he  not  yet  heard  of  my  arrival?  "  asks  Molly,  im- 
pulsively, some  faint  indignation  stirring  in  her  breast. 

"He  knew  you  were  coming,  of  course;  I  am  not  sure 
if  he  remembered  the  exact  hour.  If  you  will  come  with 
me,  I  will  take  you  to  the  library." 

Across  the  hall  in  nervous  silence  Molly  follows  her 
guide  until  they  reach  a  small  anteroom,  beyond  which  lies 
the  "  chamber  of  horrors,"  as,  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  to 
be  indifferent,  Molly  cannot  help  regarding  it. 

Marcia  knocking  softly  at  the  door,  a  feeble  but  rasping 
voice  bids  them  enter ;  and,  throwing  it  widely  open,  Miss 
Amherst  beckons  her  cousin  to  follow  her  into  the  presence 
of  her  dreaded  grandfather. 

Although  looking  old,  and  worn,  and  decrepit,  he  is  still 
evidently  in  much  better  health  than  when  last  we  saw 
him,  trundling  up  and  down  the  terraced  walk,  endeavor- 
ing to  catch  some  faint  warmth  from  the  burning  sun. 

His  eyes  are  darker  and  fiercer,  his  nose  a  shade  sharper. 
Ms  temper  evidently  in  an  uncorked  condition ;  although 
he  may  be  safely  said  to  be  on  the  mend,  and,  with  regard 
to  his  bodily  strength,  in  a  very  promising  condition. 

Before  him  is  a  table  covered  with  papers,  from  which 
he  looks  up  ungraciously,  as  the  girls  enter. 

"I  have  brought  you  Eleanor  Massereeue,"  says  Marcia, 
without  preamble,  in  a  tone  so  kind  and  gentle  as  makes 
Molly  even  at  this  awful  moment  marvel  at  the  change. 

If  it  could  be  possible  for  the  old  man's  ghastly  skin  to 
assume  a  paler  hue,  at  this  announcement,  it  certainly  does 
so.  With  suppressed  but  apparent  eagerness  he  fixes  his 
eyes  upon  the  new  grandchild,  and  as  he  does  so  his  hand 
eloses  involuntarily  upon  the  paper  beneath  it ;  his  mouth 
twitches;  a  shrinking  pain  contracts  his  face.  Yes,  she 
is  very  like  her  dead  mother. 

"  How  long  has  she  been  in  my  house?"  he  asks,  pres- 
ently, after  a  pause  that  to  Molly  has  been  hours,  still  with 
his  gaze  upon  her,  though  beyond  this  prolonged  examina- 
tion of  her  features  he  has  vouchsafed  her  no  welcome. 

"  She  came  by  the  half -past  four  train.  Williams  met 
her  with  the  brougham. " 

"  And  it  is  nearly  six.     Pray  why  have  I  been  kept  BO 


J23  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

long  in  ignorance  of  her  arrival?"  Not  once  as  he  speaks 
does  he  Took  at  Marcia,  or  at  anything  but  Molly's  pale, 
pretty,  disturbed  face. 

"Dear  grandpapa,  you  hare  forgotten.  Yesterday  I  told 
yon  the  hour  we  expected  her.  But  no  doubt,  with  so 
many  important  matters  upon  your  mind,"  with  a  glance 
at  the  littered  table,  "you  forgot  this  one." 

"I  did,"  slowly,  "so  effectually  as  to  make  me  doubt 
having  ever  heard  it.  No,  Marcia,  no  more  excuses,  no 
more  liea :  you  need  not  explain.  Be  satisfied  that  what- 
ever plans  you  formed  to  prevent  my  bidding  your  cousin 
welcome  to  my  house  were  highly  successful.  At  intrigue 
vou  are  a  proficient.  I  admire  proficiency  in  all  things, — . 
but — for  the  future — be  so  good  as  to  remember  that  I  never 
forget." 

"Dear  grandpapa,"  with  a  pathetic  but  very  distinct 
sigh,  "  it  is  very  hard  to  be  misjudged!  " 

"  Granted.  Though  at  times  one  must  own  it  has  its 
advantages.  Now,  if  for  instance  I  could  only  bring  my- 
self, now  and  again,  to  misjudge  you,  how  very  much  more 
conducive  to  the  accomplishment  of  your  aims  it  would  be  I 
Leave  the  room.  I  wish  to  speak  to  your  cousin." 

Reluctant,  but  not  daring  to  disobey,  and  always  with 
the  same  aggrieved  expression  upon  her  face,  Marcia  with' 
draws. 

As  the  door  closes  behind  her,  Mr.  Amherst  rises,  and 
holds  out  one  hand  to  Molly. 

"Yon  are  welcome,"  he  says,  quietly,  but  coldly,  and 
evidently  speaking  with  an  effort. 

Molly,  coming  slowly  up  to  him,  lays  her  hand  in  his, 
while  entertaining  an  earnest  hope  that  she  will  not  be 
called  upon  to  seal  the  interview  with  a  kiss. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  says,  faintly,  not  knowing  what  else 
to  say,  and  feeling  thoroughly  embarrassed  by  the  fixity 
and  duration  of  his  regard. 

"  Yes,"  speaking  again,  slowly,  and  absently.  "  You 
are  welcome — Eleanor.  I  am  glad  I  have  seen  you  before 
—my  death.  Yes — you  are  very  like — Go !  "  with  sudden 
vehemence,  "leave  me;  I  wish  to  be  alone/' 

Sinking  back  heavily  into  his  arm-chair,  he  motions  hei- 
from  him,  and  Molly,  finding  herself  a  moment  later  once 
more  in  the  anteroom,  breathes  a  sigh  of  thankfulness  that 
this  her  first  strange  interview  with  her  host  is  at  an  end. 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  123 

"Dress  me  quickly,  Sarah,"  she  says,  as  she  gains  her 
own  room  about  half  an  hour  later,  and  finds  that  damsel 
awaiting  her.  "And  make  me  look  as  beautiful  as  possi- 
ble ;  I  nave  yet  another  cousin  to  investigate,  and  some- 
thing tells  me  the  third  will  be  the  charm,  and  that  I  shall 
get  on  with  him.  Young  men  " — ingenuous!}*,  and  for- 
getting she  is  expressing  her  thoughts  aloud — "  are  cer- 
tainly a  decided  improvement  on  young  women.  If,  how- 
ever, there  is  really  any  understanding  between  Philip  and 
Marcia,  it  will  rather  spoil  my  amusement  and — still  I 
need  not  torment  myself  beforehand,  as  that  is  a  matter  I 
shall  learn  in  five  minutes." 

"  There's  a  very  nice  young  man  down-stairs,  miss," 
breaks  in  Sarah,  at  this  juncture,  with  a  simper  that  has 
the  pleasing  effect  of  making  one  side  of  her  face  quite  an 
inch  shorter  than  the  other. 

"  What!  you  have  seen  him,  then?  "  cries  Molly,  full  of 
her  own  idea,  and  oblivious  of  dignity.  "  Is  he  handsome, 
Sarah?  Young?  Describe  him  to  me." 

"  He  is  short,  miss,  and  stoutish,  and — and " 

"Yes!  Do  go  on,  Sarah,  and  take  that  smile  off  your 
face :  it  makes  you  look  downright  imbecile.  '  Short !  * 
*  Stout ! '  Good  gracious !  of  what  on  earth  could  Teddy 
have  been  thinking/' 

"His  manners  is  most  agreeable,  miss,  and  altogether  he 
is  a  most  gentleman-like  young  man." 

"  Well,  of  course  he  is  all  that,  or  he  isn't  anything ; 
but  stout ! " 

"  Not  a  bit  stiffish,  or  uppish,  as  one  might  expect,  con- 
sidering where  he  come  from.  And  indeed,  Miss  Molly," 
with  an  irrepressible  giggle,  "  he  did  say  as  how " 

"What!  "icily. 

"  As  how  I  had  a  very-  bewidging  look  about  the  eyes." 

"  Sarah,"  exclaims  Miss  Massereene,  sinking  weakly  into 
a  chair.  "  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  my  cousin  Philip — Cap- 
tain Shadwell — told  you — had  the  impertinence  to  speak 
to  you  about " 

"  Law,  Miss  Molly,  whatever  are  you  thinking  about? — 
Captain  Shadwell !  why,  I  haven't  so  much  as  laid  eyes  on 
him !  I  was  only  speaking  of  his  young  man,  what  goes 
by  the  name  of  Peters." 

"Ridiculous!  "  cries  Molly,  impatiently;  then  bursting 
into  a  merry  laugh,  she  laughs  so  heartily  and  so  long  that 
the  somewhat  puzzled  Sarah  feels  compelled  to  ioiu, 


124  MOLL  Y  BA  WN-. 

" '  Short,  and  stout,  and  gentlemanly ' — ha,  ha,  ha! 
And  so  Peters  said  you  were  bewidging,  Sarah?  Ah!  take 
care,  and  do  not  let  him  turn  your  head :  if  you  do,  you 
will  lose  all  your  fun,  and  gain  little  for  it.  Is  that  a  bell? 
Oh,  Sarah!  come,  dispatch,  dispatch,  or  I  shall  be  late, 
and  eternally  disgraced." 

The  robing  proceeds,  and  when  finished  leaves  Molly 
standing  before  her  maid  with  (it  must  be  confessed)  a  very 
self-satisfied  smirk  upon  her  countenance. 

"  How  am  I  looking,  Sarah?  I  want  a  candid  opinion; 
but  on  no  account  say  anything  disparaging." 

"  Lovely !  "  says  Sarah,  with  comfortable  haste.  "  There's 
no  denying  it,  Miss  Molly.  Miss  Amherst  below,  for  all 
her  dark  hair  and  eyes  (and  I  don't  say  but  that  she  is 
handsome),  could  not  hold  a  candle  to  you,  as  the  saying 
is — and  that's  a  fact." 

"  Is  there  anything  in  all  the  world,"  says  Miss  Masae- 
reene,  "so  sweet  as  sincere  praise?  Sarah,  you  are  a 
charming  creature.  Good-bye ;  I  go — let  us  hope — to  vic- 
tory. But  if  not, — if  I  find  the  amiable  relatives  refuse  to 
acknowledge  my  charms  I  shall  at  least  know  where  to 
come  to  receive  the  admiration  I  feel  I  so  justly  deserve  I" 

So  saying,  with  a  little  tragic  flourish,  she  once  more 
wends  her  way  down-stairs,  trailing  behind  her  her  pretty 
white  muslin  gown,  with  its  flecks  of  coloring,  blue  as  her 
eyes,  into  the  drawing-room. 

The  close  of  autumn  brings  to  us  a  breath  of  winter. 
Already  the  daylight  has  taken  to  itself  wings  and  flown 
partially  away;  and  though,  as  yet,  a  good  deal  of  it 
through  compassion  lingers,  it  is  but  a  half-hearted  dally- 
ing that  speaks  of  hurry  to  be  gone. 

The  footman,  a  young  person,  of  a  highly  morbid  and 
sensitive  disposition,  abhorrent  of  twilights,  has  pulled 
down  all  the  blinds  in  the  sitting-rooms,  and  drawn  the 
curtains  closely,  has  lit  the  lamps,  and  poked  into  a  blaze 
the  fire,  that  Mr.  Amherst  has  the  wisdom  to  keep  burning 
all  the  year  round  in  the  long  chilly  room. 

Before  the  fire,  with  one  arm  on  the  mantel-piece,  and 
one  foot  upon  the  fender,  stands  a  young  man,  in  an  atti- 
tude suggestive  of  melancholy.  Hearing  the  rustling  of  a 
woman's  garments,  he  looks  up,  and,  seeing  Molly,  stares 
at  her,  first  lazily,  then  curiously,  then  nmazedly,  t'heji 

She  is  quite  close  to  him ;  she  can  almost  touch  him ;  in- 
deed, no  fartiuer  oan  she  go  without  jmttiag  kirn  to  one 


M6LL  Y  BA 

side;  and  still  he  has  not  stirred.  The  situation  growa 
embarrassing,  so  embarrassing  that,  what  with  the  ludi- 
crous silence  and  Philip  ShadwelFs  eyes  which  betray  a 
charmed  astonishment,  Molly  feels  an  overpowering  desire 
to  laugh.  She  compromises  matters  by  smiling,  and  low- 
ering  her  eyelids  just  half  an  inch. 

"You  do  not  waut  all  the  fire,  do  you?"  she  asks,  de- 
murely,  in  a  low  tone. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  exclaims  Philip,  in  his  abstrac- 
tion, moving  in  a  direction  closer  to  the  fire,  rather  than 
from  it.  "I  had  no  idea  I  was.  I" — doubtfully,  "am  I 
speaking  to  Miss  Massereene  ?  " 

"  You  are.  And  I — I  know  I  am  speaking  to  Captain 
Shad  well." 

"  Yes/'  slowly.    "  That  is  my  name,— Philip  Shadwell." 

"We  are  cousins,  then,"  says  Molly,  kindly,  as  though 
desirous  of  putting  him  at  his  ease.  ' '  I  hope  we  shall  be, 
what  is  far  better,  friends." 

"We  must  be;  we  are  friends,"  returns  he,  hastily,  so 
full  of  surprise  and  self-reproach  as  to  be  almost  uncon- 
scious of  his  words. 

Is  this  the  country  cousin  full  of  freckles  and  mauvaise 
honte,  who  was  to  be  pitied,  and  lectured,  and  taught  gen- 
erally how  to  behave? — whose  ignorance  was  to  draw  forth 
groans  from  pit  and  gallery  and  boxes?  A  hot  blush  at 
nis  own  unmeant  impertinence  thrills  him  from  head  to 
foot.  Were  she  ever,  by  any  chance,  to  hear  what  he  had 
said.  Oh,  perish  the  thought ! — it  is  too  horrible ! 

A  little  laugh  from  Molly  somewhat  restores  his  senses. 

"You  should  not  stare  so,"  she  says,  severely,  with  an 
adorable  attempt  at  a  frown.  "  And  you  need  not  look  at 
me  all  at  once,  you  know,  because,  as  I  am  going  to  stay 
here  a  whole  month,  you  will  have  plenty  of  time  to  do  it 
by  degrees,  without  fatiguing  yourself.  By  the  bye,"  re- 
proachfully, "  I  have  come  a  journey  to-day,  and  am  dread- 
fully tired,  and  you  have  never  even  oifered  me  a  chair : 
must  I  get  one  for  myself  ?  " 

"  You  have  driven  any  manners  I  may  possess  out  of  my 
head,"  replies  he,  laughing,  too,  and  pushing  toward  her 
the  coziest  chair  the  room  contains.  "  Your  sudden  en- 
trance bewildered  me ;  you  came  upon  me  like  an  appari- 
tion ;  more  especially  as  people  in  this  house  never  get  to 
the  drawing-room  until  exactly  one  minute  before  dinner 
is  announced." 


136 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 


"Why?" 

"  Lest  we  should  bore  each  other  past  forgiveness,  Being 
together  as  we  are  every  day,  and  all  day  long,  one  can 
easily  imagine  how  a  very  little  more  pressure  would  smash 
the  chains  of  politeness.  You  may  have  heard  of  the  last 
straw  and  its  disastrous  consequences?-" 

"  I  have.  I  am  sorry  I  frightened  you.  To-morrow 
night  I  shall  know  better,  and  shall  leave  you  to  your 
silent  musings  in  peace." 

"No;  don't  do  that!  "  says  her  companion,  earnestly. 
"On  no  account  do  that.  I  think  the  half -hour  before 
dinner,  sitting  by  the  fire,  alone,  as  we  are  now,  the  best  of 
the  whole  day ;  that  is,  of  course,  if  one  spends  it  with  a 
congenial  companion." 

"  Are  you  a  congenial  companion?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  smiling.  "  If  you  will  let  me,  I  can 
at  least  try  to  be." 

"  Try,  then,  by  all  means."  In  a  moment  or  two, — "  I 
should  like  to  fathom  your  thoughts,"  says  Molly. 
"  When  I  came  in,  there  was  more  than  bewilderment  in 
your  face;  it  showed — how  shall  I  express  it?  You  looked 
as  though  you  had  expected  something  else?" 

"  Will  you  forgive  me  if  I  say  I  did?  " 

"  What,  then?    A  creature  tall,  gaunt,  weird ?" 

"No." 

"Fat,  red,  uncomfortable?" 

This  touches  so  nearly  on  the  truth  as  to  be  unpleasant. 
He  winces. 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  I  did  not  expect,"  he  says,  hastily, 
coloring  a  little.  "  How  should  I  ?  It  is  so  seldom  one  has  the 
good  luck  to  discover  in  autumn  a  rose  belonging  to  June." 

His  voice  falls. 

"Am  I  one?"  asks  she,  looking  with  dangerous  frank- 
ness into  the  dark  eyes  above  her,  that  are  telling  her 
silently,  eloquently,  she  is  the  fairest,  freshest,  sweetest 
queen  of  flowers  in  all  the  world. 

The  door  opens,  and  Mr.  Amherst  enters,  then  Marcia. 
Philip  straightens  himself,  and  puts  on  his  usual  bored, 
rather  sulky  expression.  Molly  smiles  upon  her  grumpy 
old  host.  He  offers  her  his  arm,  Philip  does  the  same  to 
Marcia,  and  together  they  gain  the  dining-room. 

It  is  an  old,  heavily  wainscoted  apartment,  gloomy  be- 
yond words,  so  immense  that  the  four  who  dine  in  it  to- 
night appear  utterly  lost  in  its  vast  centre. 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  Itf 

Marcia,  in  an  evening  toilet  of  black  and  ivory,  sits  ;iS 
the  head  of  the  table,  her  grandfather  opposite  to  her. 
Philip  and  Molly  are  vis-dt-vis  at  the  sides.  Behind  stand 
the  footmen,  as  sleek  and  well-to-do,  and  imbecile,  as  one 
can  desire. 

There  is  a  solemnity  about  the  repast  that  strikes  but 
fails  to  subdue  Molly.  It  has  a  contrary  effect,  making 
her  spirits  rise,  and  creating  in  her  a  very  mistaken  desire 
for  laughter.  She  is  hungry  too,  and  succeeds  in  eating  a 
good  dinner,  while  altogether  she  comes  to  the  conclusion 
that  it  may  not  be  wholly  impossible  to  put  in  a  very  good 
time  at  Herst. 

Never  does  she  raise  her  eyes  without  encounter! ag 
Philip's  dark  ones  regarding  her  with  thb  friendliest  atten- 
tion. This  also  helps  to  reassure  her.  A  friend  in  need 
is  a  friend  indeed,  and  this  friend  is  handsome  as  well  a» 
kind,  although  there  is  a  little  something  or  other,  a  sup- 
pressed vindictiveness,  about  his  expression,  that  repels  her. 

She  compares  him  unfavorably  with  Lv.ctrell,  and  pres- 
ently lets  her  thoughts  wander  on  to  the  glad  fact  that  to- 
morrow will  see  the  latter  by  her  side,  when  indeed  she 
will  be  in  a  position  to  defy  fate, — and  Marcia.  Already  she 
has  learned  to  regard  that  dark-browed  lady  with  distrust. 

"Is  any  one  coming  to-morrow?"  asks  Mr.  Amherst, 
& proj)os  of  Molly's  reverie." 

"  Tedcastle,  and  Maud  Barley." 

"Her  husband?" 

"  I  suppose  so.  Though  she  did  not  mention  him  when 
writing." 

"  Poor  Darley !  "  with  a  sneer:  "  she  never  does  mention 
him.  Any  one  else?" 

"Not  to-morrow." 

"I  wonder  if  Luttrell  will  be  much  altered,"  says 
Philip;  "  browned,  I  suppose,  by  India,  although  his  stay 
there  was  of  the  shortest." 

"  He  is  not  at  all  bronzed,"  breaks  in  Molly,  quietly. 

"You  know  him?"  Marcia  asks,  in  a  rather  surprised 
tone,  turning  toward  her. 

"  Oh,  yes,  very  well,"  coloring  a  little.  'c  That  is,  he 
was  staying  with  us  for  a  short  time  at  Brooklyn." 

"  Staying  with  you?  "  her  grandfather  repeats,  curiously. 
It  is  evidently  a  matter  of  wonder  with  them,  her  friend- 
ship with  Tedcastle. 

.  Yes,  he  and  John,  my  brother,  are  old  friends.     They 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

were  at  school  together,  although  John  is  much  older,  an,1 
he  says •" 

Mr.  Amherst  coughs,  which  means  he  is  displeased,  an<? 
turns  his  head  away.  Marcia  gives  an  order  to  one  of  th»- 
servants  in  a  very  distinct  tone.  Philip  smiles  at  Molly 
and  Molly,  unconscious  of  offense,  is  about  to  return  tc 
the  charge,  and  give  a  lengthened  account  of  her  tabooed 
brother,  when  luckily  she  is  prevented  by  a  voice  from  be- 
hind her  chair,  which  says: 

"  Champagne,  or  Moselle?' 

"  Champagne,"  replies  Molly,  and  fcrgets  her  brother 
for  the  moment. 

"  I  thought  all  women  were  prejudiced  in  favor  of  Mo- 
selle," says  Philip,  addressing  her  hastily,  more  from  a 
view  to  hinder  a  recurrence  to  the  forbidden  topic  than 
from  any  overweening  curiosity  to  learn  her  taste  in  wines. 
"  Are  not  you?" 

"I  am  hardly  in  a  position  to  judge,"  frankly,  "as  I 
have  never  tasted  Moselle,  and  champa^  ne  only  once. 
Have  I  shocked  you?  Is  that  a  very  lowering  admission?  " 

Mr.  Amherst  coughs  again.  The  cornm-s  of  Marcia'a 
mouth  take  a  disgusted  droop.  Philip  laughs  out  loud. 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  is  a  very  refreshing  one,"  he  says, 
in  an  interested  and  deeply  amused  tone,  ' '  more  especially 
in  these  degenerate  days  when  most  young  ladies  can  tell 
one  to  a  turn  the  precise  age,  price,  and  retailer  of  one's 
wines.  May  I  ask  when  was  this  memorable  '  once '  ?  " 

"  At  the  races  at  Loaminster.  Were  you  ever  there?  I 
persuaded  my  brother  to  take  me  there  the  spring  before 
last,  and  he  went." 

"  We  were  there  that  year,  with  a  large  party,"  says 
Marcia.  "  I  do  not  remember  seeing  you  on  the  stand." 

"We  were  not  on  it.  We  drove  over,  John  and  I  and 
Letty,  in  the  little  trap,  a  Norwegian,  and  dreadfully 
ehaky  it  was,  but  we  did  not  care,  and  we  sat  in  it  all  day, 
and  saw  everything  very  well.  Then  a  friend  of  John's,  a 
man  in  the  Sixty-second,  came  up,  and  asked  to  be  intro- 
duced to  me,  and  afterward  others  came,  and  persuaded  us 
to  have  luncheon  with  them  in  their  marquee.  It  was 
there,"  nodding  at  Philip,  "  I  got  the  champagne.  We 
had  great  fun,  I  remember,  and  altogether  it  was  quite 
the  pleasantest  day  I  ever  spent  in  my  life." 

As  she  speaks,  she  dimples,  and  blushes,  and  beam?  all 
her  pretty  face  as  she  recalls  that  day's  past 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN,  12f> 

"The  Sixty-second?"  says  Marcia.  "I  recollect.  A 
very  second-rate  regiment  I  thought  it.  There  was  a  Cap- 
tain Milburd  in  it,  I  remember." 

"  That  was  John's  friend,"  says  Molly,  promptly ;  "he 
was  so  kind  to  me  that  day.  Did  you  like  him?" 

' '  Like  him !  A  man  all  broad  plaid  and  red  tie.  No,  I 
•certainly  did  not  like  him." 

"  His  tie !  "  says  Molly,  laughing  gayly  at  the  vision  she 
has  conjured  up, — "  it  certainly  was  red.  As  red  as  that 
rose,"  pointing  to  a  blood-colored  flower  in  the  centre  of  a 
huge  china  bowl  of  priceless  cost,  that  ornaments  the  mid- 
dle of  the  table,  and  round  which,  being  opposite  to  him, 
she  has  to  peer  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  Philip.  "  It  was  the 
reddest  thing  I  ever  saw,  except  his  complexion.  But  I 
forgave  him,  he  was  so  good-natured." 

"Does  good-nature  make  up  for  everything?"  asks 
Philip,  dodging  the  bowl  in  his  turn  to  meet  her  eyes. 

"For  most  things.  Grandpapa,"  pointing  to  a  family 
portrait  over  the  chimney-piece  that  has  attracted  her  at- 
tention ever  since  her  entrance,  "  whose  is  that  pic- 
ture?" 

"Your  grandmother's.  It  is  like  you,  but,"  says  the 
old  man  with  his  usual  gracefulness,  "  it  is  ten  times  hand- 
somer." 

"  Very  like  you,"  thinks  the  young  man,  gazing  with 
ever  increasing  admiration  at  the  exquisite  tints  and  shades 
and  changes  in  the  living  face  before  him,  "  only  you  are 
ten  thousand  times  more  beautiful !  " 

Slowly,  and  with  much  unnecessary  delay,  the  dinner 
drags  to  an  end,  only  to  be  followed  by  a  still  slower  hour 
in  the  drawing-room. 

Mr.  Amherst  challenges  Philip  to  a  game  of  chess,  that 
most  wearisome  of  games  to  the  on-looker,  and  so  arranges 
himself  that  his  antagonist  cannot,  without  risking  his 
neck,  bestow  so  much  as  a  glance  in  Miss  Massereene's 
direction. 

Marcia  gets  successfully  through  two  elaborate  fantasies 
upon  the  piano,  that  require  rather  more  than  the  correct 
brilliancy  of  her  touch  to  make  up  for  the  incoherency  of 
their  composition ;  while  Molly  sits  apart,  dear  soul,  and 
wishes  with  much  devoutness  that  the  inventor  of  chess 
had  been  strangled  at  his  birth. 

At  ten  o'clock  precisely  Mr.  Amherst  rises,  having  lost 
Jtiis  game,  and  a  good  deal  of  his  temper,  and  expresses  hia 


130 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 


intention  of  retiring  without  delay  to  his  virtuous  slum, 
bers.  Marcia  asks  Molly  whether  she  too  would  not  wish 
to  go  to  her  room  after  the  day's  fatigue ;  at  which  propo- 
sition Molly  grasps  with  eagerness.  Philip  lights  her  can- 
dle,  they  are  in  the  hall  together, — and  then  holds  out 

his  hand. 

"  Do  you  know  we  have  not  yet  gone  through  the  cere- 
mony of  shaking  hands?"  he  says,  with  a  kindly  smile, 
and  a  still  more  kindly  pressure ;  which  I  am  afraid  met 
with  some  faint  return.  Then  he  wishes  her  a  good 
night's  rest,  and  she  wends  her  way  up-stairs  again,  and 
knows  the  long-thought-of,  hoped-for,  much-dreaded  day 
is  at  an  end. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set; 
May'st  hear  the  merry  din." — Ancient  Mariner. 

"  TEDDY  is  coming  to-day,"  is  Molly's  first  thought  next 
morning,  as,  springing  from  her  bed,  she  patters  across  the 
floor  in  her  bare  feet  to  the  window,  to  see  how  the 
weather  is  going  to  greet  her  lover. 

"  He  is  coming/'  The  idea  sends  through  her  whole 
frame  a  little  thrill  of  protective  gladness.  How  happy, 
how  independent  she  will  feel  with  her  champion  always 
near  her !  A  sneer  loses  half  its  bitterness  when  resented 
by  two  instead  of  one,  and  Luttrell  will  be  a  sure  partisan. 
Apart  from  all  which,  she  is  honestly  glad  at  the  prospect 
of  so  soon  meeting  him  face  to  face. 

Therefore  it  is  that  with  shining  eyes  and  uplifted  head 
she  takes  her  place  at  the  breakfast-table,  which  gives  the 
pleasantest  meal  at  Herst — old  Amharst  being  ever  con- 
spicuous by  his  absence  at  it. 

Philip,  too,  is  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

"  It  will  be  a  tete-ti-tete  breakfast,"  says  Marcia,  with  a 
view  to  explanation.  "  Grandpapa  never  appears  at  this 
hour,  nor — of  late — does  Philip." 

'How  unsociable!"  says  Molly,  rather  disappointed  at 
the  latter's  defection.  "Do  they  never  come?  All  the 
year  round?" 

"  Grandpapa  never.     But  Philip,  I  presume,  will  return 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  137 

to  his  usual  habits  once  the  house  begins  to  fill, — I  mean, 
when  the  guests  arrive/' 

"  This  poor  little  guest  is  evidently  of  small  account/'1 
thinks  Molly,  rather  piqued,  and,  as  the  thought  crosses 
her  mind,  the  door  opens  and  Philip  comes  toward  her. 

"  Good-morning,"  he  says,  cheerfully. 

"You  have  breakfasted?"  Marcia  asks,  coldly,  in  a 
rather  surprised  tone. 

"  Long  since.  But  I  witt  take  a  cup  of  coffee  from  you 
now,  if  you  will  allow  me." 

"  I  hardly  think  you  deserve  it,"  remarks  Molly,  turn- 
ing luminous,  laughing  eyes  upon  him.  "  Marcia  has  just 
been  telling  me  of  your  bad  habits.  Fancy  your  prefer- 
ring your  breakfast  all  alone  to  having  it  with " 

"  You?"  interrupts  he,  quickly.  "  I  admit  your  argu- 
ment ;  it  was  bearish ;  but  I  was  particularly  engaged  this 
morning.  You  shall  not  have  to  complain  of  my  conduct 
in  the  future,  however,  as  I  am  resolved  to  mend  my  ways. 
See  how  you  have  improved  me  already." 

"  Too  sudden  a  reformation,  I  fear,  to  be  lasting." 

"  No.  It  all  hinges  on  the  fact  that  the  iron  was  hot. 
There  is  nc  knowing  what  you  may  not  do  with  me  before 
you  leave,  if  you  will  only  take  the  trouble  to  teach  me. 
Some  more  toast?  " 

"No,  thank  you/' 

Marcia  grows  a  shade  paler,  and  lets  one  cup  rattle  awk- 
wardly against  another.  Have  they  forgotten  her  very 
presence? 

"  I  have  not  much  fancy  for  the  r6le  of  teacher,"  goes  on 
Molly,  archly:  "  I  have  heard  it  is  an  arduous  and  thank- 
less one.  Besides,  I  believe  you  to  be  so  idle  that  you 
would  disgrace  my  best  efforts/' 

"  Do  you?  Then  you  wrong  me.  On  the  contrary,  you 
would  find  me  a  very  apt  pupil, — ambitious,  too,  and  anx- 
ious to  improve  under  your  tuition." 

"  Suppose,"  breaks  in  Marcia,  with  deadly  civility,  "  yon 
finish  your  tete-a-t&e  in  the  drawing-room.  We  have  quite 
done  breakfast,  I  think,  and  one  wearies  of  staring  at  the 
very  prettiest  china  after  a  bit.  Will  you  be  good  enough 
to  ring  the  bell,  Philip?" 

"  0*r  tete-a-t$te,  as  you  call  it,  must  be  postponed,"  says 
Philip,  smiling,  rising  to  obey  her  order ;  "  I  am  still  busy, 
and  must  return  to  my  work.  Indeed,  I  only  left  it 
to  pay  you  a,  Hying  visit/' 


132  MOLL  Y  BA  Wtf. 

Although  his  tone  includes  both  women,  his  eyes  rest 
alone  on  Molly. 

"Then  you  do  actually  work,  sometimes?"  says  that 
young  lady,  with  exaggerated  surprise  and  uplifted  li^s. 

"  Now  and  then, — occasionally — as  little  as  I  can 
help." 

"What  a  speech,  coming  from  an  ambitious  pupil!" 
cries  she,  gayly.  "Ah!  did  I  not  judge  you  rightly  a 
moment  ago  when  I  accused  you  of  idleness?" 

Philip  laughs,  and  disappears,  while  Molly  follows  Mar- 
cia  into  a  small  drawing-room,  a  sort  of  general  boudoir, 
where  the  ladies  of  the  household  are  in  the  habit  of  as- 
sembling after  breakfast,  and  into  which,  sooner  or  later, 
the  men  are  sure  to  find  their  way. 

Marcia  settles  down  to  the  everlasting  macrame  work  on 
which  she  seems  perpetually  engaged,  while  indolent  Molly 
sits  calmly,  and  it  must  be  confessed  very  contentedly, 
with  her  hands  before  her. 

After  a  considerable  silence,  Marcia  says,  icily : 

"I  fear  you  will  find  Herst  Royal  dull.  There  is  so 
little  to  amuse  one  in  a  house  where  the  host  is  an  invalid. 
Do  you  read?" 

"  Sometimes,"  says  Molly,  studying  her  companion  curi- 
ously, and  putting  on  the  air  of  ignorance  so  evidently  ex- 
pected. 

"  Yes?  that  is  well.  Heading  is  about  the  one  thing  we 
have  to  occupy  our  time  here.  In  the  library  you  will 
probably  be  able  to  suit  yourself.  What  will  you  prefer? 
an  English  work?  or" — superciliously — "  perhaps  French? 
You  are  without  doubt  a  French  scholar." 

"If  you  mean  that  I  consider  myself  complete  mistress 
of  the  French  language,"  says  Molly,  meekly,  "  I  must 
say  no." 

"Ah!  of  course  not.  The  remote  country  parts  in 
which  you  live  afford,  I  dare  say,  few  opportunities  of 
acquiring  accomplishments." 

'  We  have  a  National  School/'  says  Molly,  with  increas- 
ing^ mildness,  and  an  impassive  countenance. 

"Ah!"  says  Marcia  again.  Her  look— her  tone — say 
volumes. 

'*  You  are  very  accomplished,  I  suppose/'  says  Mollv, 
presently,  her  voice  full  of  resigned  melancholy.  "  You 
ean  paint  and  draw?" 

"  Yes,  a 


MOLL  Y  BA  Wtf.  \$& 

"And  play,  and  sing?" 

"Well,  yes,"  modestly;  "I  don't  sing  much,  becausi 
my  chest  is  delicate." 

"Thin  voice,"  thinks  Molly  to  herself. 

"How  fortunate  you  are!"  she  says  aloud.  "Howl 
envy  you!  Why,  there  is  positively  nothing  you  cannot  do! 
Even  that  macrame,  which  seems  to  me  more  difficult  than 
all  the  other  things  I  have  mentioned,  you  have  entirely 
mastered.  Now,  I  could  not  remember  all  those  different 
knots  to  save  my  life.  How  clever  you  are !  How  attract- 
ive men  must  find  you !  "  Molly  sighs. 

A  shade  crosses  Marcia's  face.  Her  eyelids  quiver.  Al- 
though the  shaft  (be  it  said  to  Molly's  praise)  was  inno- 
cently shot,  still  it  reached  her  cousin's  heart,  for  has  she 
not  failed  in  attracting  the  one  man  she  so  passionately 
loves? 

"  I  really  hardly  know,"  Miss  Amherst  says,  coldly.  "  I 
— don't  go  in  for  that  sort  of  thing.  And  you, — do  you 
paint?" 

"Oh,  no." 

"  You  play  the  piano,  perhaps?" 

"  I  try  to,  now  and  then." 

("  '  The  Annen  Polka,'  and  on  memorable  occasions 
'The  Battle  of  Prague,'"  thinks  Marcia,  comfortably.) 
"  You  sing,"  she  says. 

"  I  do,"  with  hesitation. 

("  '  Rosalie  the  Prairie  Flower,'  and  the  '  Christy  Min- 
strels' generally,"  concludes  Marcia,  inwardly.)  "  That  is 
charming,"  she  says  out  loud :  "  it  is  so  long  since  we  have 
had  any  one  here  with  a  talent  for  music." 

"Oh,"  says  Molly,  biting  a  little  bit  off  her  nail,  and 
then  examining  her  finger  in  an  embarrassed  fashion, 
"you  must  not  use  the  word  talented,  that  implies  so 

much,  and  I — really  you  know  I Why,"  starting  to 

her  feet,  and  regaining  all  her  usual  impulsive  gayety, 
"that  is  surely  Philip  walking  across  the  lawn,  and  he 
said  he  was  so  busy.  Can  we  not  go  out,  Marcia?  The 
day  is  so  lovely." 

"  If  you  want  Philip,  I  dare  say  one  of  the  servants  will 
bring  him  to  you,"  says  Marcia,  insolently. 


Just  before  luncheon  the  Barleys  arrive.  Henry  Darley, 


134  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

tall,  refined,  undemonstrative;  Mrs.  Darley,  small  and 
Billy,  with  flaxen  hair,  blue  eyes,  pink  and  white  com- 
plexion, and  a  general  wax-dollyness  about  her;  and  just 
such  a  tiny,  foolishly  obstinate  mouth  as  usually  goes  with 
a  face  like  hers.  She  is  vain,  but  never  ill-natured,  unless 
it  suits  her  purpose ;  frivolous,  but  in  the  main  harmless ; 
and,  although  indifferent  to  her  husband, — of  whom  she  ie 
utterly  unworthy, — takes  care  to  be  thoroughly  respectable. 
Full  of  the  desire,  but  without  the  pluck,  to  go  altogether 
wrong,  she  skirts  around  the  edges  of  her  pet  sins,  yet 
having  a  care  that  all  those  who  pass  by  shall  see  her  gar- 
ments free  of  stain. 

"  I  understand  my  husband,  and  my  husband  under- 
stands me/'  she  is  in  the  habit  of  saying  to  those  who  will 
take  the  trouble  to  listen ;  which  is  strictly  true  as  regards 
the  latter  part  of  the  speech,  though  perhaps  the  former  is 
not  so  wise  an  assertion. 

With  her  she  brings  her  only  child,  a  beautiful  little  boy 
of  six. 

She  greets  Marcia  with  effusion,  and  gushes  over  Molly, 

"  So  glad,  dear,  so  charmed  to  make  your  acquaintance. 
Have  always  felt  such  a  deep  interest  in  your  poor  dear 
mother's  sad  but  romantic  story.  So  out  of  the  common 
as  it  was,  you  know,  and  delightfully  odd,  and — and — all 
that.  Of  course  you  are  aware  there  is  a  sort  of  cousinship 

between  us.     My  father  married  your "  and  so  on,  and 

>n,  and  on. 

She  talks  straight  through  lunch  to  any  one  and  every 
one  without  partiality;  although  afterward  no  one  can  re- 
member what  it  was  she  was  so  eloquent  about. 

:<Tedcastle  not  come?"  she  says,  presently,  catching 
Marcia's  eye.  "  I  quite  thought  he  was  here.  What  ai* 
adorable  boy  he  was!  I  do  hope  he  is  not  changed.  If 
India  has  altered  him,  it  will  be  quite  too  bad." 

"He  may  come  yet,"  replies  Marcia;  "though  I  now 
think  it  unlikely.  When  writing  he  said  to-day,  or  to- 
morrow ;  and  with  him  that  always  means  to-morrow.  He 
is  fond  of  putting  off;  his  second  thoughts  are  always  his 
best." 

"Always,"  thinks  Molly,  angrily,  feeling  suddenly  a 
keen  sense  of  sure  disappointment. "  What  does  she  know 
about  him?  After  all  he  said  on  parting  he  must,  he  will 
come  to-day. 

Yet  somehow,  spite  of  this  comforting  conclusion*  her 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  135 

spirits  sink,  her  smile  becomes  less  ready,  her  luncheon 
grows  flavorless.  Something  within  compels  her  to  believe 
that  not  until  the  morrow  shall  she  see  her  lover. 

When  they  leave  the  dining-room  she  creeps  away  unno- 
ticed, and,  donning  her  hat,  sallies  forth  alone  into  the 
pleasant  wood  that  surrounds  the  house. 

For  a  mile  or  two  she  walks  steadily  on,  crunching  be- 
neath her  feet  with  a  certain  sense  of  vicious  enjoyment 
those  early  leaves  that  already  have  reached  death.  How 
very  monotonous  all  through  is  a  big  wood !  Trees,  grass, 
sky  overhead !  Sky,  grass,  trees. 

She  pulls  a  few  late  wild  flowers  that  smile  up  at  her 
coaxingly,  and  turns  them  round  and  round  within  her 
fingers,  not  altogether  tenderly. 

What  a  fuss  poets,  and  painters,  and  such-like,  make 
about  flowers,  wild  ones  especially !  When  all  is  said,  there 
is  a  terrible,  sameness  about  them;  the  same  little  pink 
ones  here,  the  same  little  blue  ones  there ;  here  the  inevit- 
able pale  yellow,  there  the  pure  warm  violet.  Well,  no 
doubt  there  is  certainly  a  wonderful  variety — but  still 

Looking  up  suddenly  from  her  weak  criticism,  she  sees 
coming  quickly  toward  her — very  close  to  her — Teddy  Lut- 
trell. 

With  a  glad  little  cry,  she  flings  the  ill-treateu  Lowers 
from  her  and  runs  to  him  with  hands  outstretched. 

"You  have  come,"  she  cries,  "after  all!  I  knew  you 
would ;  although  she  said  you  wouldn't.  Oh,  Teddy,  I  had 
quite  given  you  up." 

Luttrell  takes  no  notice  of  this  contradictory  speech. 
With  his  arms  round  her,  he  is  too  full  of  the  intense  hap- 
piness of  meeting  after  separation  the  beloved,  to  heed  mere 
words.  His  eyes  are  fastened  on  her  perfect  face. 

How  more  than  fair  she  is !  how  in  his  absence  he  kas 
misjudged  her  beauty !  or  is  it  that  she  grows  in  excellence 
day  by  day?  Not  in  all  his  lover's  silent  raptures  has  he 
imagined  her  half  as  lovely  as  she  now  appears  standing 
before  him,  her  hands  clasped  in  his,  her  face  flushed  witn 
unmistakable  joy  at  seeing  him  again. 

"Darling,  darling!  "  he  says,  with  such  earnest  delight 
in  his  tones  that  she  returns  one  of  his  many  kisses,  out  of 
sheer  sympathy.  For  though  glad  as  she  is  to  welcome 
him  as  a  sure  ally  at  Herst,  she  hardly  feels  the  same  long- 
ing for  the  embrace  that  he  (with  his  heart  full  of  her 
alone)  naturally  does. 


J36  MOLLY  BAWN.  1 

"  You  look  as  if  you  were  going  to  tell  me  I  hav$  grown 
tall,"  she  eays,  amused  at  his  prolonged  examination  of 
her  features.  "John  always  does,  when  he  returns  from 
London,  with  the  wild  hope  of  keeping  me  down.  Have  I?  " 

"  How  can  I  tell?  I  have  not  taken  my  eyes  from  your 
face  yet." 

"  Silly  boy,  and  I  have  seen  all  the  disimprovements  in 
you  long  ago.  I  have  also  seen  that  you  are  wearing  an 
entirely  new  suit  of  clothes.  Such  reckless  extravagance ! 
but  they  are  very  becoming,  and  I  am  fond  of  light  gray, 
so  you  are  forgiven.  Why  did  you  not  come  sooner?  I 
have  been  longing  for  you.  Oh,  Teddy,  I  don't  like  Mar- 
cia  or  grandpapa  a  bit ;  and  Philip  has  been  absent  nearly 
all  the  time;  you  said  you  would  come  early." 

"  So  I  did,  by  the  earliest  train;  you  could  hardly  have 
left  the  house  when  I  arrived,  and  then  I  started  instantly 
to  find  you.  My  own  dear  darling,"  with  a  s,igh  of  con- 
tent, "how  good  it  is  to  see  you  again,  and  how  well  you 
are  looking!  " 

"Am  if"  laughing.  "So  are  you,  disgracefully  well. 
You  haven't  a  particle  of  feeling,  or  you  would  be  emaci- 
ated by  this  time.  Now  confess  you  did  not  miss  me  at 
all." 

"  Were  I  to  speak  forever,  I  could  not  tell  you  how 
much.  Are  you  not  'the  very  eyes  of  me'?"  says  the 
young  man,  fondly. 

"That  is  a  very  nonsensical  quotation,"  says  Molly, 
gayly.  "  Were  you  to  see  with  my  eyes,  just  consider  how 
different  everything  would  appear.  Now,  for  instance,  1 
would  never  have  so  far  forgotten  myself  as  to  fall  so 
idiotically  and  ridiculously  in  love,  as  you  did,  with  beau- 
tiful Molly  Massereene !  " 

At  this  little  touch  of  impertinence  they  both  laugh 
merrily.  After  which,  with  some  hesitation,  and  a  rather 
heightened  color,  Tedcastle  draws  a  case  from  his  pocket, 
and  presents  it  to  her. 

"I  brought  you  a— a  present,"  he  says,  "because  I 
know  you  are  fond  of  pretty  things. " 

As  she  opens  the  case  and  sees  within  it,  lying  on  its 
purple  velvet  bed,  a  large  dull  gold  locket,  with  a  wreath 
of  raised  forget-me-nots  in  turquoises  and  enamel  on  one 
ride,  she  forms  her  lips  into  a  round  "  Oh !  "  of  admiration 
and  delight,  more  satisfactory  than  any  words. 

•'Do  you  like  it?  I  acj  BO  gmai  i  saw  it  one  day,  quite 


MOLL  Y  SA  WN.  137 

accidentally,  in  a  window,  and  at  once  it  reminded  mo  oi 
you.  I  thought  it  would  exactly  suit  you.  Do  you  re* 
member  down  by  the  river-side  that  night,  after  our  first 
important  quarrel,  when  I  asked  you  to  marry  me?  " 

"  I  remember,"  softly. 

"  You  had  forget-me-nots  in  your  hands  then,  and  in 
your  dress.  I  can  never  forget  you,  as  you  looked  at  that 
moment;  and  those  flowers  will  ever  be  associated  with 
you  in  my  mind.  Surely  they  are  the  prettiest  that  grow. 
I  call  them  '  my  sweet  love's  flower.' ' 

"  How  fond  you  are  of  me!  "  she  says,  wistfully,  some- 
thing like  moisture  in  her  eyes,  "  and,"  turning  her  gaze 
again  upon  his  gift,  "you  are  too  good:  you  are  always 
thinking  how  to  please  me.  There  is  only  one  thing  want- 
ing to  make  this  locket  perfect,"  raising  her  liquid  eyes  to 
his  again,  "and  that  is  your  face  inside  it." 

At  which  words,  you  may  be  sure,  Luttrell  is  repaid 
over  and  over  again  all  the  thought  and  care  he  has  ex- 
pended on  the  choosing  of  the  trinket. 

"  And  so  you  are  not  in  love  with  Herst?  "  he  says,  pres- 
ently, as  they  move  on  through  the  sweet  wood,  his  arm 
around  her. 

"With  Herst?  No,  I  have  no  fault  to  find  with  Herst ; 
the  place  is  beautiful.  But  I  confess  I  do  not  care  about 
my  grandfather  or  Marcia :  of  the  two  I  prefer  my  grand- 
father, but  that  is  saying  very  little.  Philip  alone  has 
been  very  nice  to  me, — indeed,  more  than  kind." 

"  More !     What  does  Marcia  say  to  that?  " 

"  Oh,  there  is  nothing  between  them  ;  I  am  sure  of  that. 
They  either  hate  each  other  or  else  familiarity  has  bred 
contempt  between  them,  and  they  avoid  each  other  all  they 
can,  and  never  speak  unless  compelled.  For  instance,  she 
says  to  him,  '  Tea  or  coffee,  Philip?'  and  he  makes  her  8 
polite  reply ;  or  he  says  to  her,  '  Shall  I  stir  the  fire  for 
you?'  and  she  makes  him  a  polite  reply.  But  it  cao 
hardly  be  called  a  frantic  attachment." 

"  Like  ours?  "  laughing  and  bending  his  tall  slight  figure 
to  look  into  her  face. 

"  In  our  case  you  have  all  the  franticness  to  yourself/' 
she  says ;  but  as  she  says  it  she  puts  her  own  soft  little 
hand  over  the  one  that  encircles  her  waist,  to  take  the 
sting  out  of  her  words ;  though  why  she  said  it  puzzles 
even  herself :  nevertheless  there  is  great  truth  in  her  re- 
mark, and  he  knows  it. 


338  MOLL  Y  BA  Jf  ,V. 

•'Then  Philip  is  handsome,"  she  says:  "it  is  quite  a 
pleasure  to  look  at  him.  And  I  admire  him  very  much.'* 

"  He  is  a  good-looking  fellow/'  reluctantly,  and  as 
though  it  were  a  matter  of  surprise  nature's  having  be- 
stowed beauty  upon  Philip  Shadwell,  "  but  surly." 

"'  Surly !  'not  to  me. ff 

"  Oh,  of  course  not  to  you!  A  man  must  be  a  brute  to 
be  uncivil  to  a  woman.  And  I  don't  say  he  is  that," 
slowly,  and  as  though  it  were  yet  an  undecided  point 
whether  Philip  should  be  classed  with  the  lower  creation 
or  not.  "  Do  not  let  your  admiration  for  him  go  too  far, 
darling;  remember " 

"About  that,"  interrupts  she,  hurriedly,  "you  have 
something  to  remember  also.  Your  promise  to  keep  our 
engagement  a  dead  secret.  You  will  not  break  it  ?  " 

"  I  never,"  a  little  stiffly,  "  break  a  promise.  You  need 
not  have  reminded  me  of  this  one." 

Silence. 

Glancing  up  at  her  companion  stealthily,  Molly  can  see 
his  lips  are  in  a  degree  compressed,  and  that  for  the  first 
time  since  their  reunion  his  eyes  are  turned  determinedly 
from  her.  Her  heart  smites  her.  So  good  as  he  is  to  her, 
she  has  already  hurt  and  wounded  him. 

With  a  little  caressing,  tender  movement,  she  rubs  her 
cheek  up  and  down  against  his  sleeve  for  a  moment  or  two, 
and  then  says,  softly : 

"Are  you  cross  with  me,  Teddy?  Don't  then.  I  am 
so  glad,  so  happy,  to  have  you  with  me  again.  Do  not 
spoil  this  one  good  hour  by  putting  a  nasty  unbecoming 
little  frown  upon  your  forehead.  Come,  turn  your  face  to 
me  again :  when  you  look  at  me,  I  know  you  will  smile, 
for  my  sake." 

"  My  own  darling,"  says  Luttrell,  passionately. 


The  morrow  brings  new  faces,  and  Herst  is  still  further 
enlivened  by  the  arrival  of  two  men  from  some  distant  bar- 
racks,—one  so  tall,  and  the  other  so  diminutive,  as  to  call 
for  an  immediate  joke  about  "  the  long  and  the  short  of  it." 

Captain  Mottie  is  a  jolly,  genial  little  soul,  with  a  per- 
petual look  on  all  occasions  as  though  he  couldn't  help  it, 
and  just  one  fault,  a  fatal  tendency  "toward  punning  of  the 
weakest  description;  with  which  he  boruw  in  vain  to  excite 


MOLLY- B AWN.  .      139 

Jhe  risibility  of  his  intimates.  Having  a  mind  above  dis- 
appointment, however,  he  feels  no  depression  on  marking 
the  invariable  silence  that  follows  his  best  efforts,  and, 
with  a  perseverance  worthy  of  a  better  cause,  only  nerves 
himself  for  fresh  failures. 

Nature,  having  been  unprodigal  to  him  in  the  matter  of 
height,  makes  up  for  it  generously  in  the  matter  of  breadth, 
with  such  lavish  generosity,  indeed,  that  he  feels  the  time 
has  come  when,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  he  must  say  "  no  " 
to  his  bitter  beer. 

His  chum,  Mr.  Longshanks  (commonly  called  "  Daddy 
Longlegs,"  on  account  of  the  length  of  his  lower  limbs),  is 
his  exact  counterpart,  being  as  silent  as  the  other  is  talka- 
tive ;  seldom  exerting  himself,  indeed,  to  shine  in  conversa- 
tion, or  break  the  mysterious  quiet  that  envelops  him,  ex- 
cept when  he  faithfully  (though  unsmilinglyj  helps  out 
his  friend's  endeavors  at  wit,  by  saying  "ha!  ha!  "  when 
occasion  calls  for  it.  He  has  a  red  nose  that  is  rather 
striking  and  suggests  expense.  He  has  also  a  weakness  for 
gaudy  garments,  and  gets  himself  up  like  a  showy  com- 
mercial traveler. 

They  are  both  related  in  some  far-off  manner  to  their 
host,  though  how,  I  believe,  both  he  and  they  would  be 
puzzled  to  explain.  Still,  the  relationship  beyond  dispute 
is  there,  which  is  everything.  Enfin  they  are  harmless 
beings,  such  as  come  in  useful  for  padding  purposes  in 
country  houses  daring  the  winter  and  autumn  seasons, 
being,  according  to  their  friends'  account,  crack  shots,  "  Al 
at  billiards,"  and  "  beggars  to  ride." 

It  is  four  o'clock.  The  house  is  almost  deserted.  All 
the  men  have  been  shooting  since  early  morning.  Only 
Molly  and  Marcia  remain  in  possession  of  the  sitting-room 
that  overlooks  the  graveled  walk,  Mrs.  Darley  having  ac- 
companied Mr.  Amherst  in  his  customary  drive. 

The  sound  of  wheels  coming  quickly  down  the  avenue 
compels  Molly  to  glance  up  from  the  book  she  is  enjoying. 

"  Somebody  is  coming,"  she  says  to  Marcia;  and  Marcia, 
rising  with  more  alacrity  than  is  her  wont,  says,  "  It  mast 
be  Lady  Stafford,"  and  goes  into  the  hall  to  receive  her 
guest.  Molly,  full  of  ea°rer  curiosity  to  see  this  cousin  of 
Tedcastle's  whose  story  has  so  filled  her  with  interest,  rises 
also,  and  cranes  her  neck  desperately  round  the  corner  of 
the  window  to  try  and  catch  a  glimspe  of  her,  but  in  vain, 
the  unfriendly  porch  prevents  her,  and,  sinking  back  into 


•140  MOLLY  BAWtf. 

her  seat,  she  is  fain  to  content  herself  by  listening  to  thV 
conversation  that  is  going  on  in  the  hall  between  Maroia 
and  the  new  arrival. 

"Oh,  Marcia,  is  that  you?"  says  a  high,  sweet  voic^ 
with  a  little  complaining  note  running  through  it,  and 
then  there  is  a  pause,  evidently  filled  up  by  an  osculatory 
movement.  "  How  odiously  cool  and  fresh  you  do  look ! 
while  I — what  a  journey  it  has  been !  and  how  out  of  the 
way !  I  really  don't  believe  it  was  nearly  so  far  the  last 
time.  Have  the  roads  lengthened,  or  have  they  pushed 
the  house  farther  on?  I  never  felt  so  done  up  in  my  life." 

"  You  do  look  tired,  dear.  Better  go  to  your  room  at 
once,  and  let  me  send  you  up  some  tea." 

"  Not  tea,"  says  the  sweet  voice;  "  anything  but  that. 
I  am  quite  too  far  gone  for  tea.  Say  sherry,  Marcia,  or — 
no, — Moselle.  I  think  it  is  Moselle  that  does  me  good 
when  I  am  fatigued  to  death/' 

;'  You  shall  have  it  directly.  Matthews,  show  Lady 
Stafford  her  room/' 

"  One  moment,  Marcia.  Many  people  come  yet?  Ted- 
castle?" 

"  Yes,  and  Captain  Mottie,  with  his  devoted  attendant, 
and  the  Barleys." 

"  Maudie?  Is  she  as  fascinating  as  ever?  I  do  hope,  Mar- 
cia, you  have  got  her  young  man  for  her  this  time,  as  she 
was  simply  unbearable  last  year/' 

" I  have  not,"  laughing:  "it  is  a  dead  secret,  but  the 
fact  is,  he  wouldn't  come." 

"  I  like  that  young  man;  though  I  consider  he  has  sold 
na  shamefully.  Any  one  else?" 

;'My  cousin,  Eleanor  Massereene/' 

_'  The  cousin !  I  am  so  glad.  Anything  new  is  such  a 
relief.  And  I  have  heard  she  is  beautiful :  is  she?  " 

Beauty  is  in  the  eye  of  the  beholder/'  quotes  Marcia, 
in  a  low  tone,  and  with  a  motion  of  her  hand  toward  the 
open  door  inside  which  sits  Molly,  that  sends  Lady  Stafford 
ap-stairs  without  further  parley. 

"Is  it  Lady  Stafford?"  askd  Molly,  as  Marcia  re-enters 
the  room. 

"Yes." 

"  She  seems  very  tired." 

"I  don't  know,  really.  She  thinks  she  is,— which 
amounts  to  the  same  thing.  You  will  see  her  in  half  a» 
ioar  or  so  as  fresh  as  though  fatigue  were  a  thing  unknown.  *• 


MOLL  Y  BA  IPtf.  141 

"How  does  she  do  it?"  asks  Molly,  curiously,  who  has 
Imagined  Lady  Stafford  by  her  tone  to  be  in  the  last  stage 
of  exhaustion. 

"  How  can  I  say?  I  suppose  her  maid  knows.'* 

"Why?  Does  she — paint?"  asks  Molly,  with  hesita- 
tion, who  has  been  taught  to  believe  that  all  London 
women  are  a  mixture  of  false  hair,  rouge,  pearl  powder, 
and  belladonna. 

"  Paint!  "  with  a  polite  disgust,  "  I  should  hope  not.  If 
you  are  a  judge  in  that  matter  you  will  be  able  to  see  for 
yourself.  I  know  nothing  of  such  things,  but  I  don't 
think  respectable  women  paint." 

"  But,"  says  Molly,  who  feels  a  sudden  anger  at  hei 
tone,  and  as  sudden  a  desire  to  punish  her  for  her  inso- 
lence, opening  her  blue  eyes  innocently  wide,  ' '  you  are  re- 
spectable, Marcia?" 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  growing  pale  with 
anger,  even  through  that  delicate  souppon  of  color  that  ol 
late  she  has  been  compelled  to  use  to  conceal  her  pallor. 
"  Do  you  mean  to  insinuate  that  /  paint?  " 

"  I  certainly  thought  you  did,"  still  innocent,  still  full 
of  wonder :  "  you  said — 

"I  would  advise  you  for  the  future  to  restrain  such 
thoughts:  experience  will  teach  you  they  show  want  of 
breeding.  In  the  meantime,  I  beg  you  to  understand  that 
I  do  not  paint." 

"Oh,  Marcia!" 

"You  are  either  extremely  impertinent  or  excessively 
ignorant,  or  both !  "  says  Marcia,  rising  to  her  full  height, 
and  turning  flashing  eyes  upon  her  cousin,  who  is  regard- 
ing her  with  the  liveliest  reproach.  "  I  insist  on  knowing 
what  you  mean  by  your  remarks." 

"  Why,  have  you  forgotten  all  about  those  charming 
water-color  sketches  in  the  small  gallery  up-stairs?"  ex- 
claims Molly,  with  an  airy  irrepressible  laugh.  "There, 
don't  be  angry:  I  was  only  jesting;  no  one  would  for  a 
moment  suspect  you  of  such  a  disreputable  habit." 

"  Pray  reserve  your  jests  for  those  who  may  appreciate 
them,"  says  Miss  Amherst,  in  a  low  angry  tone :  "  I  do  not. 
They  are  as  vulgar  as  they  are  ill-timed." 

"  But  I  took  a  good  rise  out  of  her  all  the  same,"  says 
Molly  to  herself,  as  she  slips  from  the  room  full  of  mali- 
cious laughter. 

Before  .dinner— not  sooner — Lady  Stafford  makes  her 


J48  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

appearance,  and  quite  dazzles  Molly  with  her  beauty  and 
tne  sweetness  of  her  manner.  She  seems  in  the  gayest 
spirits,  and  quite  corroborates  all  Marcia  has  said  abrut  her 
exhibiting  no  symptoms  of  fatigue.  Her  voice,  indeed, 
still  retains  its  sad  tone,  but  it  is  habitual  to  her,  and  does 
not  interfere  with  the  attractive  liveliness  of  her  demeanor, 
but  only  adds  another  charm  to  the  many  she  already  pos- 
sesses. 

She  is  taller  than  Tedcastle  has  led  Molly  to  believe,  and 
looks  even  smaller  than  she  really  is.  Her  eyelids  droop 
at  the  corners,  and  give  her  a  pensive  expression  that 
softens  the  jaughter  of  her  blue  eyes.  Her  nose  is  small 
and  clever,  her  mouth  very  merry,  her  skin  exquisite, 
though  devoid  of  the  blue  veins  that  usually  go  with  so 
delicate  a  white,  and  her  hair  is  a  bright,  rich  gold.  She 
is  extremely  lovely,  and,  what  is  far  better,  very  pleasing 
to  the  eye. 

"  I  am  much  better,"  she  says,  gayly,  addressing  Marcia, 
and  then,  turning  to  Molly,  holds  out  to  her  a  friendly 
hand. 

"  Miss  Massereene,  I  know,"  she  smiles,  looking  at  her, 
and  letting  a  pleased  expression  overspread  her  features  as 
she  does  so.  "Marcia  told  me  of  your  arrival;  I  have 
heard  of  you  also  from  other  people ;  but  their  opinion  I 
must  reserve  until  I  have  become  your  friend.  At  all 
events,  they  did  not  lie  in  their  description.  No,  you  must 
not  cross-examine  me;  I  will  not  tell  what  they  said." 

She  is  a  decided  addition  to  the  household;  they  all  find 
her  so.  Even  Mr.  Longshanks  brightens  up,  and  makes  a 
solitary  remark  at  dinner ;  but,  as  nobody  catches  it,  he  is 
hardly  as  unhappy  as  otherwise  assuredly  he  would  have 
been. 

After  dinner  she  proves  herself  as  agreeable  in  the  draw- 
ing-room (during  that  wretched  half-hour  devoid  of  men) 
as  she  had  been  when  surrounded  by  them,  and  chatters 
on  to  Marcia  and  Molly  of  all  things  possible  and  impos- 
sible. 

Presently,  however,  the  conversation  drifting  toward 
people  of  whose  existence  Molly  has  hitherto  been  una- 
ware, she  moves  a  little  apart  from  the  other  two,  and 
amuses  herself  by  turning  over  a  book  of  Byron's  beauties  -, 
while  wishing  heartily  those  stupid  men  would  weary  of 
their  wine, — vain  wish ! 

By  degrees  the  voices  on  the  other  sofa  wax  fainter  and 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  143 

fainter,  then  lise  with  sudden  boldness,  as  Marcia,  secure 
in  her  French — says  in  that  language,  evidently  in  answer 
to  some  remark,  "No;  just  conceive  it, — she  is  totally 
uneducated,  that  is,  in  the  accepted  meaning  of  the  word. 
The  very  morning  after  her  arrival  she  confessed  to  me  she 
knew  nothing  of  French,  nothing  to  signify  of  music, 
nothing,  in  fact,  of  anything/' 

"  But  her  air,  her  whole  bearing, — it  is  inconceivable/' 
says  Lady  Stafford.  "  She  must  have  had  some  education 
surely/' 

"  She  spoke  of  a  National  School !  Consider  the  horror 
of  it !  I  expect  her  brother  must  be  a  very  low  sort  of  per- 
son. If  she  can  read  and  write  it  is  as  much  as  we  need 
hope  for.  That  is  the  worst  of  living  in  one  of  those 
petty  villages,  completely  put  of  society/' 

"What  a  pity,  with  her  charming  face  and  figure!'' 
says  Lady  Stafford,  also  (I  regret  to  say)  so  far  forgetting 
herself  as  to  speak  in  the  language  she  believes  falsely  to 
be  unknown  to  Molly. 

"  Yes,  she  is  rather  pretty,"  admits  Marcia,  against  her 
will ;  "  but  beauty  when  attached  to  ignorance  is  only  a 
matter  of  regret,  as  it  seems  to  me/' 

"  True,"  says  Lady  Stafford,  pityingly,  letting  her  eyes 
fall  on  Molly. 

The  latter,  whose  own  eyes  have  been  fixed  vacantly  on 
some  distant  and  invisible  object  outside  in  the  dark 
garden,  now  rises,  humming  softly,  and  going  toward  the 
window  presses  her  forehead  against  one  of  the  cool  panes. 
So  stationed,  she  is  out  of  sight  and  hearing. 

The  door  opens,  and  the  men  come  in  by  twos.  Lut- 
trell  makes  straight  for  Molly,  and  as  an  excuse  for  doing 
so  says  out  loud: 

"  Miss  Massereene,  will  you  sing  us  something?" 

4<  I  don't  sing,"  returns  Molly,  m  a  distinct  and  audible 
tone, — audible  enough  to  make  Marcia  raise  her  shoulders 
and  cast  an  "  I  told  you  so  "  glance  at  Cecil  Stafford. 

Luttrell,  bewildered,  gazes  at  Molly. 

"  But "  he  commences,  rashly. 

"I  tell  you  I  don't  sing,"  she  says,  again,  in  a  lower, 
more  imperative  tone,  although  even  now  she  repents  her  of 
the  ill-humor  that  has  balked  her  of  a  revenge  so  ready  to 
her  hand.  To  sing  a  French  song,  with  her  dirine  voic«, 
before  Marcia !  A  triumph  indeed ! 

All  night  long  the  conversation  between  her  cousin  aad 


^44  MOLL  Y  BA 

Lady  Stafford  rankles  in  her  mind.  What  a  foolish  freak 
it  was  her  ever  permitting  Marcia  to  think  of  her  as  one 
altogether  without  education  !  Instinct  might  have  told 
that  her  cousin  would  not  scruple  about  applying  such 
knowledge  to  her  disadvantage.  And  yet  why  is  Marcia 
her  enemy  ?  How  has  she  ever  injured  her  ?  With  what 
purpose  does  she  seek  to  make  her  visit  unpleasant  to  her  ? 

And  to  speak  contemptuously  of  her  to  Lady  Stafford,  of 
all  people,  whom  already  she  likes  well  enough  to  covet  her 
regard  in  return, — it  is  too  bad.  Not  for  worlds  would  she 
have  had  her  think  so  poorly  of  her. 

At  all  events  she  will  lose  no  time  in  explaining,  on  the 
morrow  ;  and  with  this  determination  full  upon  her  she  re- 
tires to  rest,  with  some  small  comfort  at  her  heart. 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

"  Music  hath  charms." 

"  MAT  I  come  in  ? "  says  Molly,  next  day,  knocking 
softly  at  Lady  Stafford's  door. 

"  By  all  means,"  returns  the  plaintive  voice  from  within  ; 
and  Molly,  opening  the  door,  finds  Cecil  has  risen,  and  is 
coming  forward  eagerly  to  meet  her. 

"I  knew  your  voice,"  says  the  blonde,  gayly.  "Come 
in  and  sit  down,  do.  I  am  ennuyte  to  the  last  degree,  and 
will  accept  it  as  a  positive  chanty  if  you  will  devote  half 
an  hoar  to  my  society." 

"But  you  are  sure  I  am  not  in  the  way  ?"  asks  Molly, 
hesitating ;  "  you  are  not — busy  ?" 

"  Busy  !  Oh,  what  a  stranger  I  am  to  you,  my  dear/1 
exclaims  Cecil,  elevating  her  brows :  "  it  is  three  long  years 
since  last  I  was  busy.  I  am  sure  I  wish  I  were  :  perhaps  it 
might  help  me  to  get  through  the  time.  I  have  spent  the 
last  hour  wondering  what  on  earth  brought  me  to  this  be- 
nighted spot,  and  I  really  don't  know  yet/' 

"  Grandpapa's  invitation,  I  suppose?'  says  Molly,  laugh- 
ing. 

"  Well,  yes,  perhaps  so :  and  something  else, — something 

I  verily  believe  brinsrs  UP  all  !— the  fact  that  he  has 

untold  money,  and  can  leave  it  where  he  pleases.     There 


MOLL  Y  BA  Wff.  14f 

lies  the  secret  of  our  yearly  visitations.  We  outsiders  don't 
of  course  hope  to  be  the  heir, — Philip  is  that,  or  Marcia,  or 
perhaps  both ;  but  still  there  is  a  good  deal  of  ready  money 
going,  and  we  all  hope  to  be  'kindly  remembered/  Each 
time  we  sacrifice  ourselves  by  coming  down  here,  we  con- 
sole ourselves  by  the  reflection  that  it  is  at  least  another 
hundred  tacked  on  to  our  legacy. " 

"  What  if  you  are  disappointed  ?" 

11 1  often  think  of  that,"  says  her  ladyship,  going  off  into 
a  perfect  peal  of  laughter.  "  Oh,  the  fun  it  would  be ! 
Think  of  our  expressions.  I  assure  you  I  spend  whole 
hours  picturing  Maud  Darley's  face  under  the  circumstances; 
you  know  she  takes  those  long  drives  with  him  every  day 
in  the  fond  hope  of  cutting  us  all  out  and  getting  the  lion's 
share." 

"  Poor  woman  !  it  is  sad  if  she  has  all  her  trouble  for 
nothing.  I  do  not  think  I  should  like  driving  with  grand- 
papa." 

"I  share  your  sentiments:  neither  should  I.  Still, 
there  is  a  charm  in  money.  Every  night  before  going  to 
bed  I  tot  up  on  my  fingers  the  amount  of  the  bequest  I  fee.. 
I  ought  to  receive.  It  has  reached  two  thousand  pounds 
by  this.  Next  visit  will  commence  a  fresh  thousand." 

"You  are  sanguine,"  says  Molly.  "I  wonder  if  I  shall 
go  on  hoping  like  you,  year  after  year." 

"I  request  you  will  not  even  insinuate  such  a  thing/* 
cries  Lady  Stafford  in  pretended  horror.  "  *  Year  after 
year  ! '  Why,  how  long  do  you  mean  him  to  live  ?  If  he 
doesn't  die  soon,  I  shall  certainly  throw  up  my  chance  and 
cut  his  acquaintance."  Then,  with  sudden  self-reproach, 
''  Poor  old  fellow,"  she  says,  "  it  is  a  shame  to  speak  of  him 
like  this  even  in  jest.  He  may  live  forever,  as  far  as  I  am 
^concerned.  Now  tell  me  something  about  yourself,  and  do 
take  a  more  comfortable  chair  :  you  don't  look  half  cozy." 

"Don't  make  me  too  comfortable,  or  perhaps  I  shall 
bore  you  to  death  with  the  frequency  of  my  visits.  You 
will  have  me  again  to-morrow  if  you  don't  take  care." 

"Well,  I  hope  so.  Remember  you  have  carte  blanchs 
to  come  here  whenever  you  choose.  I  was  fast  falling  into 
the  blues  when  I  heard  you  knock,  so  you  may  fancy  how 
welcome  you  were,  almost  as  welcome  as  my  cousin." 

"Marcia  ?"  asks  Molly,  feeling  slightly  disappointed  at 
the  "almost." 

"  Oh,  dear,  no, — not  Marcift  .*  she  and  I  don't  get  on  4 


146  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

bit  too  well  together,  and  she  was  excessively  disagreeable 
all  this  morning :  she  is  her  grandfather's  own  child.  I  am 
sure  she  need  not  visit  Philip's  defection  on  me  ;  bnt  she 
has  a  horrible  temper,  and  that's  the  truth.  No,  I  meant 
Tedcastle  ;  he  is  my  cousin  also.  I  do  so  like  Tedcastle  : 
don't  you?" 

"  Very  much  indeed/'  coloring  faintly.  "  But/'  hastily, 
"  I  have  not  yet  told  you  what  brought  me  here  to-day." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  had  an  object  in  coming?  * 
cries  her  ladyship,  throwing  up  her  little  white  jeweled 
hands  in  affected  reproach.  "  That  something  keener  than 
a  desire  for  niy  society  has  brought  you  to  my  boudoir  ? 
You  reduce  me  to  despair  !  I  did  for  one  short  quarter  of 
an  hour  believe  you  '  loved  me  for  myself  alone.'  * 

"  No,"  laughing,  and  blushing,  too,  all  through  her  pale 
clear  skin,  "I  confess  to  the  object.  I—the  fact  is — I  have 
felt  a  little  deceitful  ever  since  last  night.  Because — in 
spite  of  Marcia's  superior  information  on  the  subject,  I 
have  had  some  slight  education,  and  I  do  know  a  little 
French  ! " 

"  Ah  ! "  cries  Lady  Stafford,  rising  and  blushing  herself, 
a  vivid  crimson  :  "you  heard,  you  understood  all.  Well," 
with  a  sudden  revival,  and  a  happy  remembrance  of  her 
own  words,  "  I  didn't  say  anything  bad,  did  I  ?  " 

"  No,  no  :  I  would  not  have  come  here  if  you  had.  You 
said  all  there  was  of  the  kindest.  You  were  so  kind.  I 
could  not  bear  to  deceive  you  or  let  you  retain  a  false  opin- 
ion of  me.  Marcia,  indeed,  outdid  herself,  though  I  am 
guiltless  of  offense  toward  her.  She  is  evidently  not 
aware  of  the  fact  that  one  part  of  my  life  was  spent  in  Lon- 
don with  my  aunt,  my  father's  sister,  and  that  while  with 
her  I  had  the  best  masters  to  be  found.  I  am  sorry  for 
Marcia,  but  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  speak  just  then." 

Cecil  burst  into  a  merry,  irresistible  laugh. 

" It  is  delicious  ! "  cries  she,  wickedly.  "A very  comedy 
of  errors.  If  we  could  but  manage  some  effective  way  of 
showing  Marcia  her  mistake.  Can  you,"  with  sudden  in- 
spiration, <:sing  ?" 

"I  can,"  says  Molly,  calmly. 

"  You  can.  That  sounds  promising.  I  wonder  you 
don't  say  '  a  little/  as  all  young  ladies  do,  more  especially 
when  they  sing  a  good  deal  more  than  any  one  wants  them 
to !  Come  here,  and  let  me  see  what  you  mean  by  that 
uncompromising  ' 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  14? 

Opening  a  small  cottage  piano  at  the  other  end  of  her 
pretty  sitting-room,  she  motions  Molly  to  the  instrument. 

ie  Play  for  me,"  Molly  says,  bent  on  doing  her  very  best. 
"I  can  sing  better  standing." 

"What,  then?" 

"  This,"  taking  up  a  song  of  Sullivan's,  after  a  rapid 
survey  of  the  pile  of  music  lying  on  one  side. 

She  sings,  her  lovely  voice  thrilling  and  sobbing  through 
the  room,  sings  with  a  passionate  desire  to  prove  her  powers, 
and  well  succeeds.  For  a  minute  after  she  has  finished,  Cecil 
does  not  speak,  and  then  goes  into  raptures,  as  "is  her 
nature  to." 

"  Oh  that  I  had  your  voice  ! "  cries  she,  with  genuine 
tears  in  her  eyes.  "  I  would  have  the  world  at  my  feet. 
What  a  gift  !  a  voice  for  a  goddess  !  Molly — may  I  call 
you  so? — I  absolutely  pity  Marcia  when  I  think  of  her 
consternation." 

"She  deserves  it,"  says  Molly,  who  feels  her  cousin's 
conduct  deeply.  "  I  will  sing  to-night,  if  you  will  get  Marcia 
to  ask  me." 

So  the  two  conspirators  arrange  their  little  plan,  Cecil 
Stafford  being  quite  mischievous  enough  to  enjoy  the 
thought  of  Miss  Amherst's  approaching  discomfiture,  while 
Molly  feels  all  a  woman's  desire  to  restore  her  hurt  vanity. 


Dinner  is  half  over  ;  and  so  far  it  has  been  highly  suc- 
cessful. Mr.  Amherst's  temper  has  taken  this  satisfactory 
turn, — he  absolutely  refuses  to  speak  to  any  of  his  guests. 

Under  these  circumstances  every  one  feels  it  will  be  the 
better  part  of  valor  not  to  address  him, — all,  that  is,  except 
Mrs.  Darley,  who,  believing  herself  irresistible,  goes  in  for 
the  doubtful  task  of  soothing  the  bear  and  coaxing  him 
from  his  den. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  a  headache,  dear  Mr.  Amherst/' 
she  says,  beaming  sweetly  upon  him. 

"Are  you,  madam?  Evan  if  I  were  a  victim  to  that 
foolish  disorder,  I  hardly  see  why  the  fact  should  arouse  a 
feeling  of  terror  in  your  breast.  Only  weak-minded  girls 
have  headaches." 

A  faint  pause.  Conversation  is  languishing,  dying, 
among  the  other  guests ;  they  smell  the  fight  afar,  and  pause 
in  hungry  expectation  of  what  is  surely  coming. 


148  AfOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

"I  pity  any  one  so  afflicted,"  says  Mrs.  Darley,  going 
v-aiiantly  to  her  death :  "lam  a  perfect  martyr  to  them 
m}78elf.  Here  she  gives  way  to  a  little  sympathetic  sigh, 
being  still  evidently  bent  on  believing  him  weighed  down 
with  pain  heroically  borne. 

"Are  you  ?  "  says  Mr.  Amherst,  with  elaborate  politeness. 
"  You  astonish  me.  I  should  never  have  thought  it.  Rheu- 
matism, now,  I  might.  But  how  old  are  you,  madam  ?  " 

"Well,  really,"  says  Mrs.  Darley,  with  a  pretty  childish 
laugh  which  she  rather  cultivates,  being  under  the  impres- 
sion that  it  is  fascinating  to  the  last  degree,  "asking  me  so 
suddenly  puts  the  precise  day  I  was  born  out  of  my  head, 
I  hardly  remember — exactly — when " 

Conversation  has  died.  Every  one's  attention  is  fixed ; 
by  experience  they  know  the  end  is  nigh. 

"  Just  so  ;  I  don't  suppose  you  could,  it  happened  such 
a  long  time  ago  ! "  says  this  terrible  old  man,  with  an  au- 
dible chuckle,  that  falls  upon  a  silent  and  (must  it  be  said?) 
appreciative  audience. 

Mrs.  Darley  says  no  more ;  what  is  there  left  to  say  ? 
and  conversation  is  once  more  taken  up,  and  flows  on  as 
smoothly  as  it  can,  when  everybody  else  is  talking  for  a 
purpose. 

"  Is  she  old  ? "  Molly  asks  Philip,  presently,  in  a  low 
tone,  when  the  buzz  is  at  its  highest ;  "very  old,  I  mean  ? 
She  looks  so  babyish." 

"How  old  would  you  say?"  speaking  in  the  same 
guarded  tone  as  her  own,  which  has  the  effect  of  making  Lut- 
trell  and  Marcia  believe  them  deep  in  a  growing  flirtation. 

"About  twenty-two  or  three." 

"She  does  it  uncommonly  well  then,"  says  Philip, 
regarding  Mrs.  Darley  with  much  admiration, — "uncom- 
monly well ;  her  maid  must  be  a  treasure." 

"  But  why  ?    Is  she  older  than  that  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  I  am  sure,"  says  Philip,  unkindly,  with 
an  amused  smile.  "  She  used  to  be  my  age,  but  I  haven't 
the  faintest  idea  in  the  world  what  she  is — now  ! " 

After  one  or  two  more  playful  sallies  on  the  part  of  their 
host, — for  having  once  found  his  tongue  he  takes  very  good 
care  to  use  it,  and  appears  fatally  bent  on  making  his  hearers 
well  aware  of  its  restoration,— the  ladies  adjourn  to  the 
drawing-room,  where  Mrs.  Darley  instantly  retires  behind 
her  handkerchief  and  gives  way  to  a  gentle'sob. 

"  That  detestable  old  man  ! "  she  says,  viciously ;  "  how  I 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

hate  him  !  What  have  I  done,  that  he  should  treat  me 
with  such  exceeding  rudeness  ?  One  would  think  I  was  as 
old  as — as — Methuselah  !  Not  that  his  mentioning  my  age 
puts  me  out  in  the  least, — why  should  it  ? — only  his  manner 
is  so  offensive  ! " 

And  as  she  finishes  she  rolls  up  the  corners  of  her  hand- 
kerchief into  a  little  point,  and  carefully  picks  out,  one  by 
one,  the  two  tears  that  adorn  her  eyes,  lest  by  any  chance 
they  should  escape,  and,  running  down  her  cheeks,  destroy 
the  evening's  painting. 

"Don't  distress  yourself  about  it,  Maud,"  says  Ladj 
Stafford,  kindly,  although  strongly  divided  between  pit} 
for  the  angry  Maud  and  a  growing  desire  to  laugh  ;  "no- 
body  minds  him  :  you  know  we  all  suffer  in  turn.  Some- 
thing tells  me  it  will  be  my  turn  next,  and  then  you  will 
indeed  see  a  noble  example  of  fortitude  under  affliction. " 

There  is  no  time  for  more  ;  the  door  opens  and  the  men 
come  in,  more  speedily  to-night  than  is  their  wont,  no 
doubt  driven  thereto  by  the  amiability  of  Mr.  Amherst. 

Maud  suppresses  the  tell-tale  handkerchief,  and  puts  on 
such  a  sweet  smile  as  utterly  precludes  the  idea  of  chagrin. 
The  men,  with  the  usual  amount  of  bungling,  fall  into  theiv 
places,  and  Cecil  seizes  the  opportunity  to  say  to  Marcia, 
m  a  low  tone  : 

"You  say  Miss  Massereene  sings.  Ask  her  to  give  us 
something  now.  It  is  so  slow  doing  nothing  all  the  even- 
ing, and  I  feel  Mr.  Amherst  is  bent  on  mischief.  Besides, 
it  is  hard  on  you,  expecting  you  to  play  all  the  night 
through." 

"I  will  ask  her  if  you  wish  it,"  Marcia  says,  indiffer- 
ently, "but  remember,  you  need  not  look  for  a  musical 
treat.  I  detest  bad  singing  myself." 

"  Oh,  anything,  anything,"  says  Cecil,  languidly  sinking 
back  into  her  chair. 

Thus  instigated,  Marcia  does  ask  Molly  to  sing. 

"If  you  will  care  to  hear  me,"  Molly  answers,  coldly 
rather  than  diffidently,  and  rising,  goes  to  the  piano. 

"  Perhaps  there  may  be  something  of  mine  here  that 
you  may  know,"  Marcia  says,  superciliously,  pointing  to 
the  stand ;  but  Molly,  declaring  that  she  can  manage  with- 
out music,  sits  down  and  plays  the  opening  chords  of 
Gounod's  "Berceuse." 

A  moment  later,  and  her  glorious  voice,  rarely  soft,  and 
sweet  as  a  child's,  yet  powerful  withaL  rings  through  th$ 


150 


MOLLY  BAWN. 


room,  swells,  faints,  every  note  a  separate  delight,  falling 
like  rounded  pearls  from  her  lips. 

A  silence — truest  praise  of  all — follows.  One  by  one  the 
talkers  cease  their  chatter ;  the  last  word  remains  a  ,last 
word  ;  they  forget  the  thought  of  a  moment  before. 

A  dead  calm  reigns,  while  Molly  sings  on,  until  the 
final  note  drops  from  her  with  lingering  tenderness. 

Even  then  they  seem  in  no  hurry  to  thank  her  ;  almost 
half  a  minute  elapses  before  any  one  congratulates  her  on 
the  exquisite  gift  that  has  been  given  her. 

"  You  have  been  days  in  the  house,  and  never  until  now 
have  let  us  hear  you,"  Philip  says,  leaning  on  the  top  of 
the  piano  ;  he  is  an  enthusiast  where  music  is  concerned. 
"  How  selfish  !  how  unkind  !  I  could  hardly  have  believed 
it  of  you." 

"Was  I  ever  asked  before ?"  Molly  says,  raising  her 
eyes  to  his,  while  her  fingers  still  run  lightly  over  the 
notes. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  it  never  occurred  to  us,  and, 
as  you  may  have  noticed,  there  is  a  dearth  of  graciousness 
among  us.  But  for  you  to  keep  such  a  possession  a  secret 
was  more  than  cruel.  Sing  again." 

"  I  must  not  monopolize  the  piano :  other  people  can 
sing  too." 

"Not  like  you."  He  pauses,  and  then  says,  slowly,  "I 
used  to  think  nature  was  impartial  in  the  distribution  of 
her  gifts, — that,  as  a  rule,  we  all  received  pretty  much  the 
same  amount  of  good  at  her  hands ;  to  one  beauty,  to 
another  talent,  and  so  on ;  but  I  was  wrong :  she  has  her 
favorites,  it  appears.  Surely  already  you  had  had  more 
than  your  share,  without  throwing  in  your  perfect  voice." 

Molly  lowers  her  eyes,  but  makes  no  reply ;  experience 
has  taught  her  that  this  is  one  of  the  occasions  on  which 
"silence  is  golden." 

"You  sing  yourself,  perhaps?"  she  says,  presently, 
when  she  has  tired  of  waiting  for  him  to  start  a  subject. 

"Occasionally.  Will  you  sing  this  with  me?"  taking 
up  a  celebrated  duet  and  placing  it  before  her.  "  Do  vou 
knosvit?" 

"Yea  Mr.  Luttrell  and  I  used  to  sing  it  often  ai 
Brooklyn :  it  was  a  great  favorite  of  ours." 

"Oh,  that!  Indeed  !"  laying  it  aside  with  suspicious 
baste.  "  Shall  we  try  something  else  ?  " 

"  And  why  something  else  ?"  composedly.     "  Does  that 


MOLL  Y  BA  WM.  151 

not  suit  your  voice  ?    If  it  does,  I  will  sing  it  with  yon  with 
pleasure/' 

"  Really  ?"  regarding  her  closely,  with  what  is  decidedly 
more  than  admiration  in  his  gaze.  "  Are  there  no  recollec- 
tions hidden  in  that  song  ?" 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  I  never  saw  that  particular  edition 
before.  Open  it,  and  let  us  see/'  returns  Molly,  with  a 
merry  laugh.  "Who  knows  what  we  may  find  between 
the  pages  ?" 

"  If  I  might  only  believe  you,"  he  says,  earnestly,  still 
only  half  convinced.  "  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  Luttrell 
spent  am  entire  month  with  you,  and  left  you  heart-whole  ? 
I  cannot  believe  it." 

"  Then  don't,"  still  laughing. 

At  this  instant,  Luttrell,  who  has  with  moody  eyes 
been  watching  Philip's  eager  face  from  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  saunters  up,  and  seeing  the  old  well-remembered 
duet  lying  open  before  Molly,  suddenly  thinks  it  may  be 
there  for  him,  and  cheering  up,  says  pleasantly  : 

"  Are  you  going  to  sing  it  with  me  ?  " 

"  Not  to-night,"  Molly  replies,  kindly  ;  "  Philip  has  just 
asked  me  to  sing  it  with  him.  Some  other  time." 

"  Ah ! "  says  Luttrell,  more  wounded  than  he  cares  to 
confess ;  for  is  not  that  very  song  endeared  to  him  by  a 
thousand  memories  ?  and  turning  on  his  heel,  he  walks 
away. 

With  a  little  impulsive  gesture  Molly  rises  from  the 
piano-stool,  and,  without  again  looking  at  Philip,  moves 
across  the  room  to  the  seat  she  had  originally  vacated. 
As  she  does  so  she  passes  close  by  Marcia,  who,  ever  since 
her  cousin's  voice  first  sounded  in  her  ears,  has  been  sitting 
silent,  now  pale,  now  red. 

She  stays  Molly  by  a  slight  movement  of  the  hand,  and 
says,  coldly : 

"  I  thought  you  told  me  you  could  neither  sing  nor  un- 
derstand French  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  could  have  said  quite  that,"  Molly  re- 
plies, quietly;  "I  told  you  I  sang  a  little;  it  is  not  cus- 
tomary to  laud  one's  own  performances." 

"  You  are  a  clever  actress,"  says  Marcia,  so  low  as  to  be 
unheard  by  all  but  Molly  :  "  with  such  a  voice  as  yours, 
and  such  masterly  command  of  all  emotion  and  expression, 
you  should  make  the  stage  your  home." 

"  Perhaps  I  shall  find  your  hint  usetul  in  the  future,"" 


153  MOLLY  BAWN. 

savs  Molly,  with  a  slight  shrug  of  her  shoulders  :  "  whec 
oiie  is  poor  it  is  always  well  to  know  there  is  something  one 
can  put  one's  hand  to  when  things  come  to  the  worst  ;  but 
at  present  I  feel  sufficiently  at  home  where  I  am.  I  am 

glad/'  calmly,   "my  singing  pleased  you, — if,  indeed,  it 
id." 

"  You  sing  magnificently,"  Marcia  says,  aloud,  giving 
her  meed  of  praise  justly,  but  unwillingly. 

"And  such  a  charming  song  as  that  is  I"  breaks  in  Mrs. 
Darley:  "I  remember  hearing  it  for  the  first  time,  just 
after  my  marriage  ;  indeed,  while  we  were  yet  enjoying  our 
wedding  tour.  Do  you  remember  it,  dearest  ?  "  As  she 
murmurs  the  tender  words,  she  turns  upon  her  lord  two 
azure  eyes  so  limpid  and  full  of  trust  and  love  that  any 
man  ignorant  of  the  truth  would  have  sworn  by  all  his  gods 
her  desire  was  with  her  husband,  whereas  every  inch  of 
heart  she  possesses  has  long  since  been  handed  over  to  a 
man  in  the  Horse  Guards  Blue. 

"  Humph  ! "  says  Henry  Darley,  eloquently ;  and  with- 
out further  rejoinder  goes  on  with  the  game  of  chess  he  is 
playing  with  Mr.  Amherst. 

"  Let  us  have  something  else,  Eleanor/'  her  grandfather 
says,  looking  up  for  an  instant  from  his  beloved  queens 
and  kings  and  castles  ;  "another  song." 

This  is  such  a  wonderful  request  coming  from  Mr.  Am- 
herst, who  is  known  to  abhor  Marcia's  attempts,  that  every 
one  looks  surprised." 

"Willingly,  grandpapa,"  says  Molly,  and,  going  once 
more  to  the  piano,  gladly  puts  the  obnoxious  duet  away, 
feeling  sure  its  appearance  has  caused  Tedcastle's  annoy- 
ance. "  Though  if  he  is  going  to  be  jealous  so  early  in  the 
game  as  this,"  thinks  she,  "I  don't  fancy  I  shall  have  an 
altogether  festive  time  of  it." 

"  What  shall  it  be?  "  she  asks,  aloud. 
'  Nothing  Italian,  at  all  events,"  says  Mr.  Amherst  (all 
Marcia's  endeavors  are  in  that  language)  ;  "  I  like  some- 
thing I  can  understand,  and  I  hate  your  runs  and  trills." 

"I  will  sing  you  my  own  song,"  says  Molly,  gayly,  and 
gives  them  "  Molly  Bawn"  deliciously. 

/'How  pretty  that  is!"  says  Lady  Stafford;  "and  so 
vrild,— quite  Irish  !  But  your  name,  after  all,  is  Eleanor, 
is  it  not?" 

"  There  is,  I  believe,  a  tradition  in  the  family  to  that 
effect,'  says  Molly,  smiling,  "but  it  is  used  up,  and  no 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  153 

one  now  pays  to  it  the  least  attention.  I  myself  much 
prefer  Molly.  I  am  always  called  Molly  Bawn  at  home.'" 

Her  voice  lingers  on  the  word  "  home."  In  an  instant, 
amidst  all  the  luxuries  and  charms  of  this  beautiful  draw- 
ing-room at  Herst,  her  mind  goes  back  to  the  old,  homely, 
beloved  sanctum  at  Brooklyn,  where  she  sees  John,  and 
Letty,  and  all  the  happy,  merry,  good-hearted  children, 
harmoniously  mixed  up  together. 

"It  is  a  pity,"  says  Mr.  Amherst,  purposely,  seeing  an 
opening  for  one  of  his  cheerful  remarks,  "  that  everything 
about  Ireland  should  be  so  wretchedly  low." 

"  It  is  swampy,"  replies  Miss  Molly,  promptly. 

At  this  dangerous  moment  the  door  is  thrown  wide  open, 
and  a  servant  announces  "  Mr.  Potts." 

The  effect  is  electric.  Everybody  looks  up,  and  pleased, 
and  glad  ;  while  the  owner  of  this  euphonious  name  comes 
forward,  and,  having  shaken  hands  with  Marcia,  turns  to 
old  Amherst. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  sir  ?  "  he  says,  heartily.  "  I  hope  you 
are  better." 

"  Do  you  ?  "  says  Mr.  Amherst,  unamiably,  feeling  still 
a  keen  regret  that  the  neat  retort  intended  for  Molly  must 
wait  another  occasion.  "I  would  believe  you  if  I  could, 
but  it  isn't  in  human  nature.  Yes,  I  am  better,  thank  you  ; 
much  better.  I  dare  say  with  care  I  shall  last  this  winter, 
and  probably  the  next,  and  perhaps  outlive  a  good  many  of 
you."  He  chuckles  odiously  as  he  winds  up  this  pleasing 
speech. 

Mr.  Potts,  rather  taken  aback,  mutters  something  in- 
audible, and  turns  to  Lady  Stafford,  who  receives  him 
warmly. 

He  is  a  young  man  of  about  twenty-four  (though  he 
might,  in  appearance,  be  any  age  from  that  to  forty-four), 
and  is  short  rather  than  tall.  His  eyes  are  gray",  small, 
and  bright,  and  full  of  fun,  bespeaking  imperturbable  good 
humor. 

His  hair  is  red.  It  is  hair  that  admits  of  no  com- 
promise ;  it  is  neither  auburn,  golden,  nor  light  brown — it 
is  a  distinct  and  fiery  red.  His  nose  is  "poor,  but  honest," 
and  he  has  a  thorough  and  most  apparent  appreciation  of 
himself. 

As  I  said  before,  Lady  Stafford  greets  him  warmly ;  he 
is  one  of  her  special  pets. 

"  How  are  you  getting   on  ? "  he  asks,  mysteriously, 


154 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 


when  the  first  questions  and  answers  have  been  gone, 
through.  "  Old  boy  evidently  worse  than  ever.  The  wine 
theory  would  not  suit  his  case  ;  age  does  anything  but  im- 
prove him.  He  has  gone  to  the  bad  altogether.  I  suppose 
you've  been  putting  in  an  awful  bad  time  of  it?" 

"  We  have,  indeed/'  says  Lady  Stafford  ;  "  he  has  been 
unbearable  all  through  dinner,  though  he  was  pretty  well 
yesterday.  I  think  myself  it  must  be  gout ;  every  twinge 
brings  forth  a  caustic  speech." 

Bv  this  time  every  one  had  shaken  hands  with  the  new- 
comer, and  welcomed  him  heartily.  He  seems  specially 
pleased  to  see  Tedcastle. 

"  Luttrell !  you  here  ?  Never  had  a  hint  of  it.  So  giao. 
to  see  you,  old  man  !  Why,  you're  looking  as  fit  as  even 
your  best  friend  could  wish  you." 

"  Meaning  yourself,"  says  Luttrell.  "  Now,  let's  have 
a  look  at  you.  Why,  Planty,  what  an  exquisite  get  up  ! 
New  coat  and — etc.  latest  tie,  and  diamonds  ad  lib.  Quite 
coquettish,  upon  my  word.  Who  gave  you  the  diamonds, 
Potts?  Your  mother?" 

"  No ;  I  got  tired  of  hinting  there,"  says  Potts,  ingen- 
uously, "so  gave  it  up,  and  bought  'em  myself.  They  are 
/etching,  I  take  it.  Luttrell,  who  is  the  girl  at  the  piano  ? 
Never  saw  anything  so  lovely  in  all  my  life." 

"  Miss  Massereene." 

"  Indeed  !  Been  received,  and  all  that  ?  Well,  there's 
been  nothing  this  season  to  touch  on  her.  Introduce  nw, 
Ted,  do!" 

He  is  introduced.  And  Molly,  smiling  up  at  him  one  of 
her  own  brightest,  kindliest  smiles,  makes  him  then  and 
there  her  slave  forever.  On  the  spot,  without  a  second's 
delay,  he  falls  head  over  ears  in  love  with  her. 

By  degrees  he  gets  back  to  Lady  Stafford,  and  sinks 
upon  the  sofa  beside  her.  I  say  "sinks"  unadvisedly ;  he 
drops  upon  the  sofa,  and  very  nearly  makes  havoc  of  the 
springs  in  doing  so. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  who  I  saw  in  town  the  day  before  I 
left — a  week  ago,"  he  says,  cautiously. 

"  A  week  ago  !  And  have  you  been  ever  since  getting 
here  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  did  it  by  degrees.  First,  I  went  down  to  the 
Maplesons',  and  spent  two  days  there — very  slow,  indeed ; 
then  I  got  on  to  the  Blouts',  and  found  it  much  slower 
there ;  finally,  I  drove  to  Talbot  Lowry's  night  before  last, 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  155 

and  stayed  there  until  this  evening.     You  know  he  livos 
only  three  miles  from  here." 

"  He  is  at  home  now,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He  always  is  at  home,  I  notice,  when — you  ar\ 
here  ! " 

"No!"  says  Cecil,  with  a  little  faint  laugh.  "You 
don't  say  so  !  what  a  remarkable  coincidence  ! " 

"An  annual  coincidence.  But  you  don't  ask  me  who  it 
was  I  saw  in  London.  Guess." 

"  The  Christy  Minstrels,  without  doubt.  They  never 
perform  out  of  London,  so  I  suppose  are  the  only  people  in 
it  now." 

"  Wrong.  There  was  one  other  person — Sir  Penthony 
Stafford  ! " 

"  Really  ! "  says  Cecil,  coloring  warmly,  and  sitting  in  a 
more  upright  position.  "  He  has  returned,  then  ?  I 
thought  he  was  in  Egypt." 

"  So  he  was,  but  he  has  come  back,  looking  uncommon 
well,  too — as  brown  as  a  berry.  To  my  thinking,  as  good  a 
fellow  to  look  at  as  there  is  in  England,  and  a  capital  fellow 
all  round  into  the  bargain  ! " 

"Dear  me  \"  says  Cecil.     "What  a  loss  Egypt  has  sus 
tained  !     And  what  a  partisan  you  have  become  !     May  1 
ask,"  suppressing  a  pretended  yawn  behind  her  perfumed 
fan,  "  where  your  rara  avis  is  at  present  hiding  ?  " 

"  I  asked  him,"  says  Mr.  Potts,  "  but  he  rather  evaded 
the  question." 


"And  is  that  your  Mr.  Potts?  "  asks  Molly,  finding  her- 
self close  to  Tedcastle,  speaking  with  heavy  and  suspicious 
emphasis. 

"  Yes,"  Tedcastle  admits,  coloring  slightly  as  he  remem- 
bers the  glowing  terms  in  which  he  has  described  his  friend, 
"  Don't  you — eh,  don't  you  like  him  ?" 

"  Oh  !  like  him?  I  cannot  answer  that  yet ;  but,"  laugh- 
ing, "I  certainly  don't  admire  him." 

And  indeed  Mr.  Potts' s  beauty  is  not  of  the  sort  to  call 
forth  raptures  at  first  sight. 

"  I  have  seen  many  different  shades  of  red  in  people's 
hair,"  says  Molly,  "  but  I  have  never  seen  it  rosy  until  now. 
Is  it  dyed  ?  It  is  the  most  curious  thing  I  ever  looked  at." 

As  indeed  it  is.  When  introduced  to  poor  Potts,  when 
covering  him  with  a  first  dispassionate  glance,  one  t  hints 


158  MOLL  Y  SA  WN. 

not  of  his  pale  gray  orbs,  his  large  good-humored  mouth, 
his  freckles,  or  his  enormous  nose,  but  only  of  his  hair. 
Molly  is  struck  by  it  at  once. 

"  He  is  a  right  good  fellow/'  says  Luttrell,  rather  indig- 
nantly, being  scarcely  in  the  mood  to  laugh  at  Molly's  sar- 
casms. 

"  He  may  be,"  is  her  calm  reply,  "but  if  I  were  he, 
•rather  than  go  through  life  with  that  complexion  and  that 
unhappy  head,  I  would  commit  suicide." 

Then  there  is  a  little  more  music.  Marcia  plays  brill- 
iantly enough,  but  it  is  almost  impossible  to  forget  during 
her  playing  that  she  has  had  an  excellent  master.  It  is 
not  genuine,  or  from  the-  heart.  It  is  clever,  but  it  is  ac- 
quired, and  falls  very  flatly  after  Molly's  perfect  singing, 
and  no  one  in  the  room  feels  this  more  acutely  than  Marcia 
herself. 

Then  Luttrell,  who  has  a  charming  voice,  sings  for  them 
something  pathetic  and  reproachful,  you  may  be  sure,  as  it 
is  meant  for  Molly's  ears ;  and  then  the  evening  is  at  an 
end,  and  they  all  go  to  their  own  rooms. 

What  a  haven  of  rest  and  security  is  one's  own  room  ! 
How  instinctively  in  grief  or  joy  one  turns  to  it,  to  hide 
from  prving  eyes  one's  inmost  thoughts,  one's  hopes,  and 
despairs! 

To-night  there  are  two  sad  hearts  at  Herst ;  Marcia's, 
perhaps,  the  saddest,  for  it  is  full  of  that  most  maddening, 
most  intolerable  of  all  pains,  jealousy. 

For  hours  she  sits  by  her  casement,  pondering  on  the 
cruelty  of  her  fate,  while  the  unsympathetic  moon  pours 
its  white  rays  upon  her. 

"Already  his  love  is  dead,"  she  murmurs,  leaning  naked 
arms  upon  the  window-sill,  and  turning  her  lustrous 
southern  eyes  up  to  the  skies  above  her.  "  Already.  In 
two  short  months.  And  how  have  I  fallen  short?  how 
have  I  lost  him?  By  over-loving,  perhaps,  While  she, 
who  does  not  value  it,  has  gained  my  all." 

A  little  groan  escapes  her,  and  she  lets  her  dark  head 
sink  upon  her  outstretched  arms.  For  there  is  something 
in  Philip's  eyes  as  they  rest  on  Molly,  something  undefined, 
hardly  formed,  but  surely  there,  that  betrays  to  Marcia  the 
secret  feeling,  of  which  he  himself  is  scarcely  yet  aware. 

One  hardly  knows  how  it  is.  but  Molly,  with  a  glance,  a 
gesture,  three  little  words  pointed  by  a  smile  from  the 
liquid  eyes,  can  draw  him  to  her  side.  And  when  a  man  of 


MOLL  Y  X 'A  WN.  157 

his  cold,  reserved  nature  truly  loves,  be  sure  it  is  a  passion 
that  will  last  him  his  life. 

Tedcastle,  too,  is  thoroughly  unhappy  to-night.  Eia 
honest,  unprying  mind,  made  sharp  by  "love's  conflict/' 
has  seen  through  Philip's  infatuation,  and  over  his  last 
cigar  before  turning  in  (a  cigar  that  to-night  has  somehow 
lost  half  its  soothing  properties)  makes  out  with  a  sinking 
of  the  heart  what  it  all  means. 

He  thinks,  too,  yet  upbraids  himself  for  so  thinking^, 
that  Miss  Massereene  must  see  that  Philip  Shadwell,  heir 
to  Herst  and  twenty  thousand  pounds  a  year,  is  a  better 
catch  than  Teddy  Luttrell,  with  only  his  great  love  for  her, 
and  a  paltry  six  hundred  pounds  a  year. 

Is  it  not  selfish  of  him  to  seek  to  keep  her  from  what  is 
so  evidently  to  her  advantage  ?  Perhaps  he  ought  to  throw 
up  his  engagement,  and,  passing  out  of  her  life,  leave  her 
to  reap  the  "good  the  gods  provide." 

In  vain  he  tries  to  argue  himself  into  this  heroic  frame 
of  mind.  The  more  he  tries,  the  more  obnoxious  grows 
the  idea.  He  cannot,  he  will  not  give  her  up. 

"  Faint  heart/'  says  Teddy,  flinging  the  remnant  of  his 
cigar  with  fierce  determination  into  the  grate,  "  never  won 
fair  lady  ;  she  is  mine,  so  far,  the  fairest  darling  that  ever 
breathed,  and  be  it  selfish  or  otherwise,  keep  her  I  will  if  I 
can." 

But  he  sighs  as  he  utters  the  word  "  can/'  and  finds  his 
couch,  when  at  length  he  does  seek  it,  by  no  means  a  bed 
of  roses. 

While  Molly,  the  pretty  cause  of  all  this  heart-burning,, 
lies  in  slumber,  soft  and  sweet,  and  happy  as  can  be,  with. 
her  "  red,  red  "  lips  apart  and  smiling,  her  breathing  pure 
and  regular  as  a  little  child's,  and  all  her  "  nut-brown  "" 
hair  like  a  silken  garment  round  her. 

Cecil  Stafford,  walking  leisurely  up  and  down  her  apart- 
ment, is  feeling  half  frightened,  half  amused,  at  the  news 
conveyed  to  her  by  Mr.  Potts,  of  her  husband's  arrival  in 
England.  Now,  at  last,  after  these  three  years,  she  may 
meet  him  at  any  moment  face  to  face. 

Surely  never  was  a  story  so  odd,  so  strange  as  hers  !  A 
bride  unknown,  a  wife  whose  face  has  never  yet  been 
seen ! 

"  Well/'  thinks  Cecil,  as  she  seats  herself  while  her  maid 
binds  up  her  long  fair  hair,  "  no  use  troubling  about  it  be- 
forehand. What  must  be  must  be.  And  at  all  events  the 


358  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

dreaded  interview  cannot  be  too  soon,  as  until  my  return 
to  town  I  believe  I  am  pretty  safe  from  him  here." 

But  in  saying  this  she  reckons  without  her  host  in  every 
sense  of  the  word. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"  Oh,  beware,  my  lord,  of  jealousy; 
It  is  the  green-eyed  monster  who  doth  mock 
The  meat  it  feeds  on." — Othello. 

NEXT  day  at  luncheon  Mr.  Amherst,  having  carefully 
mapped  out  one  of  his  agreeable  little  surprises,  and  having 
selected  a  moment  when  every  one  is  present,  says  to  her, 
with  a  wicked  gleam  of  anticipative  amusement  in  his 
cunning  old  eyes : 

"  Sir  Penthony  is  in  England." 

Although  she  has  neither  hint  nor  warning  of  what  is  com- 
ing, Lady  Stafford  is  a  match  for  him.  Mr.  Potts's  intelli- 
gence of  the  evening  before  stands  her  now  in  good  stead. 

"Indeed!"  she  says,  without  betraying  any  former 
knowledge,  turning  eyes  of  the  calmest  upon  him  ;  "  you 
surprise  me.  Tired  so  soon  of  Egyptian  sphinxes  f  I 
always  knew  he  had  no  taste.  I  hope  he  is  quite  well.  I 
suppose  you  heard  from  him  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He  is  well,  but  evidently  pines  for  home  quarters 
and  old  friends.  Thinking  you  would  like  to  see  him  after 
so  long  a  separation,  I  have  invited  him  here.  You — you 
don't  object  ?  " 

"I?"  says  her  ladyship,  promptly,  reddening,  but 
laughing  too  very  successfully.  "  Now,  why  should  I 
object  ?  On  the  contrary,  I  shall  be  charmed  ;  he  will  be 
quite  an  acquisition.  If  I  remember  rightly," — with  a 
little  affected  drooping  of  the  lids, — "  he  is  a  very  hand- 
some man,  and,  I  hear,  amusing." 

Mr.  Amherst,  foiled  in  his  amiable  intention  of  drawing 
confusion  on  the  head  of  somebody,  subsides  into  a  grunt 
and  his  easy-chair.  To  have  gone  to  all  this  trouble  foi 
nothing,  to  have  invited  secretly  this  man,  who  interests 
him  not  at  all,  in  hopes  of  a  little  excitement,  and  to  have 
those  hopes  frustrated,  disgusts  him. 


MOLL  Y  BA  WX.  \*& 

Yet,  after  all,  there  will,  there  must  be  some  amusement 
in  store  for  him,  in  watching  the  meeting  between  this 
strange  pair.  He  at  least  may  not  prove  as  cool  and  in- 
different as  his  pretty  wife. 

"  He  will  be  here  to  dinner  to-day/'  he  says,  grumpishly, 
knowing  that  all  around  him  are  inwardly  rejoicing  at  his 
defeat. 

This  is  a  thunder-bolt,  though  he  is  too  much  disheart- 
ened by  his  first  defeat  to  notice  it.  Lady  Stafford  grows 
several  shades  paler,  and — luncheon  being  at  an  end — rises 
hurriedly.  Going  toward  the  door,  she  glances  back,  and 
draws  Molly  by  a  look  to  her  side. 

' '  Come  with  me/'  she  says  ;  "  I  must  speak  to  some  one, 
and  to  you  before  a,nj  of  the  others. " 

When  they  have  reached  Cecil's  pretty  sitting-room,  off 
which  her  bedroom  opens,  the  first  thing  her  ladyship  does 
is  to  subside  into  a  seat  and  laugh  a  little. 

"It  is  like  a  play,"  she  says,  "the  idea  of  his  coming 
down  here,  to  find  me  before  him.  It  will  be  a  surprise ; 
for  I  would  swear  that  horrible  old  man  never  told  him  of 
my  being  in  the  house,  or  he  would  not  have  come.  Arn 
I  talking  Greek  to  you,  Molly?  You  know  my  story, 
surely  ?  " 

"  I  have  heard  something  of  it — not  much — from  Mr. 
Luttrell,"  says  Molly,  truthfully. 

"It  ia  a  curious  one,  is  it  not ?  and  one  not  easily 
matched.  It  all  came  of  that  horrible  will.  Could  there 
be  anything  more  stupid  than  for  an  old  man  to  depart  this 
life  and  leave  behind  him  a  document  binding  two  young 

Jeople  in  such  a  way  as  makes  it  '  do  or  die '  with  them  ? 
had  never  seen  my  cousin  in  all  my  life,  and  he  had  never 
seen  me ;  yet  we  were  compelled  at  a  moment's  notice  to 
marry  each  other  or  forfeit  a  dazzling  fortune." 

"  Why  could  you  not  divide  it  ?" 

"  Because  the  lawyers  said  we  couldn't.  Lawyers  are  al- 
ways aggressive.  My  great-uncle  had  particularly  declared 
it  should  not  be  divided.  It  was  to  be  all  or  none,  and 
whichever  of  us  refused  to  marry  the  other  got  nothing. 
And  there  was  so  much !"  says  her  ladyship,  with  an  ex- 
pressive sigh. 

"It  was  a  hard  case,"  Molly  says,  with  deep  sympathy. 

"  It  was.  Yet,  as  I  managed  it,  it  wasn't  half  so  bad. 
Now,  I  dare  say  many  women  would  have  gone  into  violent 
hysterics,  would  have  driven  their  relations  to  the  verge  of 


160  MOLLY  SAWN. 

despair  and  the  shivering  bridegroom  to  the  brink  of  deliri- 
ous joy,  and  then  given  in, — married  the  man,  lived  wit* 
him,  and  been  miserable  ever  after.  But  not  I." 

Here  she  pauses,  charmed  at  her  own  superior  wiadom, 
and,  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  with  a  contented  smile,  puts 
the  tips  of  her  fingers  together  daintily. 

"Well,  and  you?"  says  Molly,  feeling  intensely  inter- 
ested. 

"  I  ?  I  just  reviewed  the  case  calmly.  I  saw  it  was  a 
great  deal  of  money, — too  much  to  hesitate  about, — too 
much  also  to  make  it  likely  a  man  would  dream  of  resign- 
ing it  for  the  sake  of  a  woman  more  or  less.  So  I  wrote  to 
my  cousiu  explaining  that,  as  we  had  never  known  each 
other,  there  could  be  very  little  love  lost  between  us,  and 
that  I  saw  no  necessity  why  we  ever  should  know  each 
other, — and  that  I  was  quite  willing  to  marry  him,  and  take 
a,  third  of  the  money,  if  he  would  allow  me  to  be  as  little  to 
him  in  the  future  as  I  was  in  the  present,  by  drawing  up  a 
formal  deed  of  separation,  to  be  put  in  force  at  the  church- 
door,  or  the  door  of  any  room  where  the  marriage  ceremony 
should  be  performed." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  how  it  would  have  been  but  that, 
to  aid  my  request,  I  inclosed  a  photograph  of  our  parlor- 
maid (one  of  the  ugliest  women  it  has  ever  been  my  misfor- 
tune to  see),  got  up  in  her  best  black  silk,  minus  the  cap, 
and  with  a  flaming  gold  chain  round  her  neck, — you  know 
the  sort  of  thing, — and  I  never  said  who  it  was/' 

"Oh,  Cecil,  how  could  you  ?" 

"  How  couldn't  I  ?  you  mean.  And,  after  all,  my  crime 
was  of  the  passive  order  ;  I  merely  sent  the  picture,  without 
saying  anything.  How  could  I  help  it  if  he  mistook  me  for 
Mary  Jane  ?  Besides,  I  was  fighting  for  dear  life,  and  all 
is  fair  in  love  and  war.  I  could  not  put  up  with  the  whims 
and  caprices  of  a  man  to  whom  I  was  indifferent." 

Did  you  know  he  had  whims  and  caprices  ?  " 
'  Molly,"  says  Lady  Stafford,  slowly,  with  a  fine  show 
of  pity,  "you  are  disgracefully  young":  cure  yourself,  my 
dear,  as  fast  as  ever  you  can,  and  as  a  first  lesson  take  this 
to  heart :  if  ever  there  was  a  mortal  man  born  upon  this 
earth  without  caprices  it  must  have  been  in  the  year  one, 
because  no  one  that  I  have  met  knows  anything  about 
him." 

"  Well,  for  the  matter  of  that/'  says  Molly,  laughing. 


MOLLY  BAWN.  161 

**  I  don't  suppose  I  should  like  a  perfect  man,  even  if  I  did 
chance  to  meet  him.  By  all  accounts  they  are  stilted,  dis- 
agreeable people,  with  a  talent  for  making  everybody  else 
seem  small.  But  go  on  with  your  story.  What  was  his 
reply?" 

"  He  agreed  cordially  to  all  my  suggestions,  named  a  very 
handsome  sum  as  my  portion,  swore  by  all  that  was  honor- 
able he  would  never  interfere  with  me  in  any  way,  was  evi- 
dently ready  to  promise  anything,  and — sent  me  back  my 
parlor-maid.  Was  not  that  insulting  ?  " 

"  But  when  he  came  to  marrv  you  he  must  have  seen 
you?" 

"Scarcely.  I  decided  on  having  the  wedding  in  our 
drawing-room,  and  wrote  again  to  say  it  would  greatly  con- 
venience my  cousin  and  myself  (I  lived  with  an  old  cousin) 
if  he  would  not  come  down  until  the  very  morning  of  the 
wedding.  Need  I  say  he  grasped  at  this  proposition  also '' 
I  was  dressed  and  ready  for  my  wedding  by  the  time  he 
arrived,  and  shook  hands  with  him  with  my  veil  down. 
You  may  be  sure  I  had  secured  a  very  thick  one. '' 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me/'  says  Molly,  rising  in  her  ex- 
citement, "that  he  never  asked  you  to  raise  your  veil  ?  " 

"Never,  my  dear.  I  assure  you  the  'best  man'  he 
brought  down  with  him  was  by  far  the  more  curious  of  the 
two.  But  then,  you  must  remember,  Sir  Penthony  had 
seen  my  picture."  Here  Cecil  goes  off  into  a  hearty  burst 
of  laughter.  "If  you  had  seen  that  maid  once,  my  dear, 
you  would  not  have  been  ambitious  of  a  second  view." 

"Still  I  never  heard  of  anything  so  cold,  so  unnatural," 
says  Miss  Massereene,  in  high  disgust.  "  I  declare  I  would 
have  broken  off  with  him  then  and  there,  had  it  been 
me." 

"  Not  if  you  lived  with  my  cousin  Amelia,  feeling  your- 
self a  dependent  on  her  bounty.  She  was  a  startling  in- 
stance of  how  a  woman  can  worry  and  torment.  The  very 
thought  of  her  makes  my  heart  sore  in  my  body  and  chills 
my  blood  to  this  day.  I  rejoice  to  say  she  is  no  more." 

"  Well,  you  got  married  ?  " 

"Yes,  in  Amelia's  drawing-room.  I  had  a  little  gold 
band  put  on  my  third  finger,  I  had  a  cold  shake-hands  from 
my  husband,  a  sympathetic  one  from  his  groomsman,  and 
then  found  myself  once  more  alone,  with  a  title  and  plenty 
of  money,  and — that's  all." 

"  What  was  his  friend's  name?  " 


162  MOLLY  BAWN. 

'  Talbot  Lowry.     He  lives  about  three  miles  from  here, 
and" — with  an  airy  laugh — "is  rather  too  fond  of  me." 

"  What  a  strange  story ! "  says  Molly,  regarding  her 
wistfully.  "  Do  you  never  wish  you  had  married  some  one 
you  loved  ?  " 

"  I  never  do/'  gayly.  "  Don't  look  to  me  for  sentiment, 
Molly,  because  I  am  utterly  devoid  of  it.  I  know  I  suffer 
in  your  estimation  by  this  confession,  but  it  is  the  simple 
truth.  I  don't  wish  for  anything.  And  yet" — pausing 
suddenly — "  I  do.  I  have  been  wishing  for  something  ever 
since  that  old  person  down-stairs  tried  to  take  me  back  this 
morning,  and  failed  so  egregiously." 

"  And  your  wish  is " 

"  That  I  could  make  my  husband  fall  madly  in  love  with 
me.  Oh,  MolJy,  what  a  revenge  that  would  be  !  And  why 
should  he  not,  indeed  ?  "  Going  over  to  a  glass  and  gazing 
earnestly  at  herself.  "  I  am  pretty, — very  pretty,  I  think. 
Speak,  Molly,  and  encourage  me." 

"  You  know  you  are  lovely,"  says  Molly,  in  such  good 
faith  that  Cecil  kisses  her  on  the  spot.  "  But  what  if  you 
should  fall  in  love  with  him  ?  " 

"Perhaps  I  have  done  so  long  ago,"  her  ladyship  replies, 
in  a  tone  impossible  to  translate,  being  still  intent  on  the 
contemplation  of  her  many  charms.  Then,  quickly,  "No, 
no,  Molly,  I  am  fire-proof." 

"  Yet  any  day  you  may  meet  some  one  to  whom  you  must 
give  your  love." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  should  despise  myself  forever  if  I 
once  found  myself  letting  my  pulse  beat  half  a  second  faster 
for  one  man  than  for  another. " 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  have  never  loved?" 

"  Never,  never,  never.  And,  indeed,  to  give  myself  due 
credit,  I  believe  the  fact  that  I  have  a  husband  somewhere 
would  utterly  prevent  anything  of  the  sort." 

"  That  is  a  good  thing,  if  the  idea  lasts.  But  won't  you 
feel  awkward  in  meeting  him  this  evening  ?  " 

"I?  No,  but  I  dare  say  he  will ;  and  I  hope  so  too/' 
says  her  ladyship,  maliciously.  "  For  three  long  years  he 
has  never  been  to  see  whether  I  were  well  or  ill — or  pining 
for  him,"  laughing.  "And  yet,  Molly,  I  do  feel  nervous, 
awfully,  ridiculously  nervous,  at  the  bare  idea  of  our  so 
Boon  coming  face  to  face. 

"  Is  he  handsome  ?  " 

:<  Ye — es,  pretty  welL     Lanky  sort  of  man,  with  a  good 


MOLL  v  BA  WN.  163 

deal  of  nose,  you  know,  and  very  little  whisker.  On  my 
word,  now  I  think  of  it,  I  don't  think  he  had  any  at  all." 

"  Nose  ?  " 

"No,  whisker.  He  was  clean-shaven,  all  but  the  mous* 
tache.  I  suppose  you  know  he  was  in  Ted's  regiment  for 
gome  time  ?  " 

"  So  he  told  me." 

"  I  wonder  what  he  hasn't  told  you  ?  Shall  I  confess, 
Molly,  that  I  know  your  secret,  and  that  it  was  I  chose  that 
diamond  ring  upon  your  finger  ?  There,  do  not  grudge  me 
your  confidence  ;  I  have  given  you  mine  and  anything  I 
have  heard  is  safe  with  me.  Oh,  what  a  lovely  blush,  and 
what  a  shame  to  waste  such  a  charming  bit  of  color  upon 
me  !  Keep  it  for  dessert." 

"  How  will  Sir  Penthony  like  Mr.  Lowry's  close  prox- 
imity ?  "  Molly  asks,  presently,  when  she  has  confessed  a 
few  interesting  little  facts  to  her  friend. 

' '  I  hope  he  won't  like  it.  If  I  thought  I  could  make  him 
jealous  I  would  flirt  with  poor  Talbot  under  his  nose/'  sayg 
Cecil,  with  eloquent  vulgarity.  "I  feel  spitefully  toward 
him  somehow,  although  our  separation  was  my  own  contriv- 
ance." 

"  Have  you  a  headache,  dear  ?  "  Seeing  her  put  her 
hand  to  her  head. 

"A  slight  one, — I  suppose  from  the  nerves.  I  think  I 
will  lie  down  for  an  hour  or  two  before  commencing  the 
important  task  of  arming  for  conquest.  And — are  you  go- 
ing out,  Molly  ?  Will  you  gather  me  a  few  fresh  flowers — 
anything  white — for  my  hair  and  the  bosom  of  my  dress  ?" 

"  I  will,"  says  Molly,  and,  having  made  her  comfortable 
with  pillows  and  perfumes,  leaves  her  to  her  siesta. 

"Anything  white."  Molly  travels  the  gardens  up  and 
down  in  search  of  all  there  is  of  the  loveliest.  Little  rose- 
buds, fresh  though  late,  and  dainty  bells,  with  sweet- 
scented  geraniums  and  drooping  heaths, — a  pure  and  inno- 
cent bouquet. 

Yet  surely  it  lacks  something, — a  little  fleck  of  green, 
to  throw  out  its  virgin  fairness.  Above,  high  over  her  head, 
a  creeping  rosebush  grows,  bedecked  with  palest,  juiciest 
leaves. 

Eeaching  up  her  hand  to  gather  one  of  the  taller 
branches,  a  mote,  a  bit  of  bark — some  hateful  thing — falls 
into  Molly's  right  eye.  Instant  agony  is  the  result.  Tears 
stream  from  the  offended  pupil  j  the  other  eye  joins  in  thg 


^64  MOLLY  BAWN. 

general  tribulation  ;  and  Molly,  standing  in  the  centre  of 
the  grass-plot,  with  her  handkerchief  pressed  frantically  to 
her  face,  and  her  lithe  body  swaying  slightly  to  and  fro 
through  force  of  pain,  looks  the  very  personification  of 
woe. 

So  thinks  Philip  Shadwell  as,  coming  round  the  corner, 
he  unperceived  approaches. 

"  What  is  it?"  he  asks,  trying  to  see  her  face,  hia  tones 
absolutely  trembling  from  agitation  on  her  behalf.  "  Molly, 
you  are  in  trouble.  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  " 

"You  can,"  replies  Miss  Massereene,  in  a  lugubrious 
voice  ;  though,  in  spite  of  her  pain,  she  can  with  difficulty 
repress  an  inclination  to  laugh,  so  dismal  is  his  manner. 
"  Oh  !  yoT.  can." 

"Tell  me  what.     There  is  nothing — Speak,  Molly." 

"Well,  I'm  not  exactly  weeping,"  says  Miss  Massereene, 
slowly  withdrawing  one  hand  from  her  face,  so  as  to  let  the 
best  eye  rest  upon  him  ;  "  it  is  hardly  mental  anguish  I'm 
enduring.  But  if  you  can  get  this  awful  thing  that  is  in 
my  eye  out  of  it  I  shall  be  intensely  grateful." 

"Is  that  all  ?"  asks  Philip,  much  relieved. 

"  And  plenty,  too,  I  think.  Here,  do  try  if  you  can  see 
anything." 

"  Poor  eye  !  "—pathetically — "  how  inflamed  it  is  !  Let 
me  see — there — don't  blink — I  won't  be  able  to  get  at  it  if 
you  do.  Now,  turn  your  eye  to  the  right.  No.  Now  to 
the  left.  Yes,  there  is,"  excitedly.  "  No,  it  isn't,"  disap- 
pointedly. _"  Now  let  me  look  below  ;  it  must  be  there." 

Just  at  this  delicate  moment  who  should  turn  the  corner 
but  Luttrell  !  Oh,  those  unlucky  corners  that  will  occur 
in  life,  bringing  people  upon  the  scene,  without  a  word  of 
warning,  at  the  very  time  when  they  are  least  wanted  ! 

Luttrell,  coming  briskly  onward  "in  search  of  his  lady- 
love, sees,  marks,  and  comes  to  a  dead  stop.  And  this  "is 
what  he  sees. 

Molly  in  Philip's— well,  if  not  exactly  in  his  embrace, 
something  very  near  it ;  Philip  looking  with  wild  anxiety 
into  the  very  depths  of  Molly's  lovely  eyes,  while  the  lovely 
eyes  look  back  at  Philip  full  of  deep  entreaty.  Tableau  I" 

t  is  too  much.  Luttrell,  stung  cruelly/ turns  as  if  to 
withdraw,  but  after  a  step  or  two  finds  himself  unable  to 
carry  out  the  dignified  intention,  and  pauses  irresolutely. 
His  back  being  turned,  howler,  he  is  not  in  at  the  closing 
act,  when  Philip  produces  tr:un;ynantly  on  the  tip  of  his 


MOLLY  BAWN.  165 

finger  such  a  mere  atom  of  matter  as  my/Kes  one  wonder 
how  it  could  ever  have  caused  so  much  annoyanc 

"Are  you  better  now  ?"  he  asks,  anxiously,  yet  with 
pardonable  pride. 

"  I — am — thank  you."  Blinking  thoughtfully,  as  though 
not  yet  assured  of  the  relief.  "  I  am  so  much  obliged  to 
you.  And — yes,  I  am  better,  Quite  well,  I  think.  What 
should  I  have  done  without  you  ?  " 

"  Ah,  that  I  could  believe  myself  necessary  to  you  at  any 
time  ! "  Philip  is  beginning,  with  fluent  sentimentality, 
when,  catching  sight  of  Tedcastle,  he  stops  abruptly. 
"Here  is  Luttrell,"  he  says,  in  an  injured  tone,  and  seeing 
no  further  prospect  of  a  tete-a-tete,  takes  his  departure. 

Molly  is  still  petting  her  wounded  member  when  Lut- 
trell reaches  her  side. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  he  asks,  with  odious 
want  of  sympathy.  "  Have  you  been  crying  ?" 

"No,"  replies  Molly,  indignant  at  his  tone, — so  unlike 
ShadwelPs.  "  Why  should  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  Because  your  eyes  are  red  ;  and  certainly  as  I 
came  up,  Shad  well  appeared  to  be  doing  his  utmost  to 
console  you/' 

"  Anything  the  matter  with  you,  Teddy  ?  "  asks  Miss 
Massereene,  with  suspicious  sweetness.  "You  seem  put 
out." 

"Yes," — sternly, — "and  with  cause.  I  do  not  relish 
coming  upon  you  suddenly  and  finding  you  in  ShadwelPs 
arms. " 

"Where  ?" 

"  Well,  if  not  exactly  in  his  arms,  very  nearly  there," 
says  Tedcastle,  vehemently. 

"You  are  forgetting  yourself. "  Coldly.  "If  you  are 
jealous  of  Philip,  say  so,  but  do  not  disgrace  yourself  by 
using  coarse  language.  There  was  a  bit  of  bark  in  my 
eyes.  I  suppose  you  think  it  would  have  been  better  for 
me  to  endure  torments  than  allow  Philip — who  was  very 
kind — to  take  it  out  ?  If  you  do,  I  differ  from  you/' 

"  I  am  not  speaking  alone  of  this  particular  instance  in 
which  you  seem  to  favor  Shad  well,"  says  the  young  man, 
moodily,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  sward  beneath  him. 
"  Every  day  it  grows  more  palpable.  You  scarcely  care  to 
hide  your  sentiments  now." 

"You  mean" — impatiently — "you  would  wish  me  to 
speak  to  no  one  except  you.  You  don't  take  into  account 


166  MOLLY  SAWN: 

how  slow  this  would  be  for  me."  She  says  this  cruelly. 
••  I  care  no  more  for  Philip  than  I  do  for  any  other  man," 

"  Just  so.  I  am  the  other  man,  no  doubt.  I  have  nevei 
been  blind  to  the  fact  that  you  do  not  care  for  me.  Why 
take  the  trouble  of  acting  a  part  any  longer  ?  " 

"  '  Acting  a  part ' !  Nonsense  !  "  says  Molly.  "  I  always 
think  that  the  most  absurd  phrase  in  the  world.  Who  does 
not  act  a  part  ?  The  thing  is  to  act  a  good  one." 

"  Is  yours  a  good  part  ?  "    Bitterly. 

"  You  are  the  best  judge  of  that,"  returns  she,  haughtily. 
"  If  you  do  not  think  so,  why  keep  to  our  engagement  ?  If 
you  wish  to  break  it,  you  need  fear  no  opposition  from  me." 
So  saying,  she  sweeps  past  him  and  enters  the  house. 

Yet  in  spite  of  her  anger  and  offended  pride,  her  eyes 
are  wet  and  her  hands  trembling  as  she  reaches  Cecil's 
room  and  lays  the  snow-white  flowers  upon  her  table. 

Cecil  is  still  lying  comfortably  ensconced  among  her  pil- 
lows, but  has  sufficient  wakefulness  about  her  to  notice 
Molly's  agitation. 

"You  have  been  quarreling,  ma  belle,"  she  says,  rais- 
ing herself  on  her  elbow ;  ' '  don't  deny  it.  Was  it  with 
Marcia  or  Tedcastle  ?  " 

"  Tedcastle,"  Molly  replies,  laughing  against  her  will  at 
the  other's  shrewdness,  and  in  consequence  wiping  away 
a  few  tears  directly  afterward.  "  It  is  nothing  ;  but  he  is 
really  intolerably  jealous,  and  I  can't  and  won't  put  up 
with  it." 

"  Oh,  that  some  one  was  jealous  about  me  !  "  says  Cecil, 
with  a  prolonged  sigh.  "  Go  on." 

"  It  was  nothing,  I  tell  you.  All  because  Philip  kindly 
picked  a  little  bit  of  dust  out  of  my  eye." 

"  How  good  of  Philip  !  considering  all  the  dust  you  have 
thrown  into  his  of  late.  And  Ted  objected  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  was  very  rude  into  the  bargain.  I  wouldn't 
have  believed  it  of  him." 

"  Well,  vou  know  yourself  you  have  been  going  on  any- 
how  with  Philip  during  the  past  few  days." 

"Oh,  Cecil,  how  can  you  say  so?  Am  I  to  turn  my 
back  on  him  when  he  comes  to  speak  to  me  ?  And  even 
supposing  I  had  flirted  egregiously  with  him  (which  is  not 
the  case),  is  that  a  reason  why  one  is  to  be  scolded  and 
abused  and  have  all  sorts  of  the  most  dreadful  things  said 
to  one  ?  "  (I  leave  my  readers  to  deplore  the  glaring  exag- 
geration of  this  speech.)  "  He  looked,  too,  as  if  he  could 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  167 

have  eaten  me  then  and  there.  I  know  this,  I  shan't  for- 
give him  in  a  hurry/" 

"  Poor  Ted  !  I  expect  he  doesn't  have  much  of  a  time 
with  you/'  says  Cecil,  shaking  her  head. 

"Are  you  laughing  at  me?"  cries  Molly,  wrathfully. 
"Then  make  ready  for  death."  And,  taking  the  smaller 
Cecil  in  her  arms,  she  most  unkindly  lifts  her  from  among 
her  cozy  cushions  and  deposits  her  upon  the  floor.  "  There  ! 
Now  will  you  repent  ?  But  come,  Cecil,  get  up,  and  prepare 
for  your  husband's  reception.  I  will  be  your  maid  to-night, 
if  you  will  let  me.  What  will  you  wear  ?  " 

"Pale  blue.  It  suits  me  best.  See,  that  is  my  dress." 
Pointing  to  a  light-blue  silk,  trimmed  with  white  lace,  that 
lies  upon  the  bed.  "Will  you  really  help  me  to  dress? 
But  you  cannot  do  my  hair  ?  " 

"Try  me." 

She  does  try,  and  proves  so  highly  satisfactory  that 
Cecil  is  tempted  to  offer  splendid  wages  if  she  will  consent 
to  come  and  live  with  her. 

The  hair  is  a  marvel  of  artistic  softness.  Every  fresh 
jewel  lends  a  grace  ;  and  when  at  length  Cecil  is  attired  in 
her  blue  gown,  she  is  all  that  any  one  could  possibly  desire. 

"Now,  honestly,  how  do  I  look?"  she  asks,  turning 
round  to  face  Molly.  "  Anything  like  a  housemaid  ?  " 
With  a  faint  laugh  that  has  something  tremulous  about  it. 

"  I  never  saw  you  half  so  charming,"  Molly  answers, 
deliberately.  "  Oh,  Cecil !  what  will  he  say  when  he  finds 
out — when  he  discovers  how  you  have  deceived  him  ?  " 

"  Anything  he  likes,  my  dear  !  "  exclaims  Cecil,  gayly 
giving  a  last  touch  to  the  little  soft  fair  locks  near  her  tem- 
ples. "  He  ought  to  be  pleased.  It  would  be  a  different 
thing  altogether,  and  a  real  grievance,  if,  being  like  the 
housemaid,  I  had  sent  him  a  photo  of  Venus.  He  might 

justly  complain  then ;  but  now There,  I  can  do  no 

more  ! "  says  her  ladyship,  with  a  sigh,  half  pleased,  half 
fearful.  "  If  I  weren't  so  shamefully  nervous  I  would  do 
very  well." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  are  half  as  frightened  for  yourself 
at  this  moment  as  I  am  for  you.  If  I  were  in  your  shoes  I 
should  faint.  It  is  to  me  an  awful  ordeal." 

"I  am  so  white,  too."  says  Cecil,  impatiently.  "You 
haven't — I  suppose,  Molly — but  of  course  you  haven't " 

"What,  dear?" 

"  Eouge.     After  all,  Therese  was  right.     When  leaving 


168  MOLLY  BAWN. 

town  she  asked  me  should  she  get  some ;  and,  when  I  re- 
jected the  idea  with  scorn,  said  there  was  no  knowing  when 
one  might  require  it.  Perhaps  afterward  she  did  put  it 
in.  Let  us  ring  and  ask  her." 

"  Never  mind  it.  You  are  no  comparison  prettier  with- 
out it.  Cecil/' — doubtingly, — "I  hope  when  it  comes  to 
the  last  moment  you  will  have  nerve." 

"  Be  happy,"  says  Cecil.  "  I  am  always  quite  composed 
at  last  moments ;  that  is  one  of  my  principal  charms.  I 
never  create  sensations  through  vulgar  excitement.  I  shall 
probably  astonish  you  (and  myself  also)  by  my  extreme 
coolness.  In  the  meantime  I" — smiling — "I  own  I  should 
like  a  glass  of  sherry.  What  o'clock  is  it,  Molly  ?  " 

"  Just  seven." 

' '•  Ah  !  he  must  be  here  now.  How  I  wish  it  was  over  ! " 
gays  Lady  Stafford,  with  a  little  sinking  of  the  heart. 

"And  I  am  not  yet  dressed.  I  must  run,"  exclaims 
Molly.  "  Good-bye,  Cecil.  Keep  up  your  spirits,  and 
remember  above  all  things  how  well  your  dress  becomes 

you." 

Two  or  three  minutes  elapse, — five, — and  still  Cecil  can- 
not bring  herself  to  descend.  She  is  more  nervous  about 
this  inevitable  meeting  than  she  cares  to  own.  Will  he  be 
openly  cold,  or  anxious  to  conciliate,  or  annoyed?  The 
latter  she  greatly  fears.  What  if  he  should  suspect  her  of 
having  asked  Mr.  Amherst  to  invite  him  ?  This  idea  tor- 
ments her  more  than  all  the  others,  and  chains  her  to  her 
room. 

She  takes  up  another  bracelet  and  tries  it  on.  Disliking 
the  effect,  she  takes  it  off  again.  So  she  trifles,  in  fond 
hope  of  cheating  time,  and  would  probably  be  trifling  now 
had  not  the  handle  of  her  door  been  boldly  turned,  the 
door  opened,  and  a  young  man  come  confidently  forward. 

His  confidence  comes  to  an  untimely  end  as  his  aston- 
ished eyes  rest  on  Cecil. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  I'm  sure,"  he  says,  beating  a  hasty 
retreat  back  to  the  landing  outside.  ' '  I  had  no  idea — I'm 
awfully  sorry— but  this  room  used  to  be  mine." 

'It  is  mine  now,"  says  Cecil,  accepting  the  situation  at 
a  glance,  recognizing  Sir  Penthony  without  hesitation. 

He  is  a  tall  young  man. — "lanky,"  as  she  has  herself 
expressed  him,— with  thick  brown  'hair,  closely  cropped. 
He  has  handsome  dark  eyes,  with  a  rather  mocking  expres- 
sion in  them,  and  has  a  triok  oi  abutting  them  slightly  if 


'MOLLY  BAWff.  16-9 

puzzled  or  annoyed.  His  voice  is  extremely  charming, 
though  it  has  a  distinct  croak  (that  can  hardly  be  called 
husky  or  hoarse)  that  is  rather  fascinating.  His  short 
upper  lip  is  covered  by  a  heavy  brown  moustache  that  hides 
a  laughing  mouth.  He  is  aristocratic  and  good-looking, 
without  being  able  to  lay  claim  to  actual  beauty. 

Just  now  he  is  overwhelmed  with  confusion,  as  Cecil, 
feeling  compelled  thereto,  steps  forward,  smiling,  to  reassure 
him. 

"  You  have  made  a  mistake, — you  have  lost  your  way," 
she  says,  in  a  tone  that  trembles  ever  such  a  little  in  spite 
of  her  efforts  to  be  calm. 

"  To  my  shame  I  confess  it,"  he  says,  laughing,  gazing 
with  ill-concealed  admiration  at  this  charming  azure  vision 
standing  before  him.  "  Foolishly  I  forgot  to  ask  for  my 
room,  and  ran  up  the  stairs,  feeling  certain  that  the  one 
that  used  to  be  mine  long  ago  must  be  so  still.  Can  you 
forgive  me  ?" 

"  I  think  I  can.  Meantime,  if  you  are  Sir  Penthony 
Stafford,  your  room  lies  there,"  pointing  to  the  last  door 
opening  on  the  corridor. 

"Thank  you,"  yet  making  no  haste  to  reach  the  dis- 
covered shelter.  "  May  I  not  know  to  whom  I  am  indebted 
for  so  much  kindness  ?  " 

"  I  dare  say  you  will  be  introduced  in  proper  form  by 
and  by,"  says  Cecil,  demurely,  making  a  movement  as 
though  to  leave  him.  "  When  you  are  dressed  you  shall 
be  formally  presented." 

"At  least,"  he  asks,  hastily,  with  a  view  to  detaining 
her,  "do  me  one  more  service  before  you  go.  If  you  know 
me  so  well,  perhaps  you  can  tell  me  if  any  of  my  friends  are 
staying  here  at  present  ?  " 

1  Several.     Teddy  Luttrell  for  one.v 

'Indeed!     And " 

'  The  Darleys.     You  know  them  ?  '* 
'  Little  woman, — dolly, — bizarre  in  manner  and  dress  ?  " 
'  A  most  accurate  description.      And  there  is  another 
friend, — one  who  ought  to  be  your  dearest :   I  allude  to 
Lady  Stafford." 

"Lady  Stafford!" 

"Yes,  your  wife.  You  don't  seem  over  and  above 
pleased  at  my  news." 

"Is  a  man  always  pleased  at  his  wife's  unexpected  ap- 
pearance ?  "  asks  Sir  Penthony,  recovering  himself  with  a 


170  MOLL  y 

rather  forced  laugh.  "  I  had  no  idea  she  was  here.  I— » 
Is  she  a  friend  of  yours  ?  " 

"The  dearest  friend  I  have.  I  know  no  one,"  declares 
her  ladyship,  fervently,  "I  love  so  fondly." 

"  Happy  Lady  Stafford  !  I  almost  think  I  would  change 
places  with  her  this  moment.  At  all  events,  whatever 
faults  she  may  possess,  she  has  rare  taste  in  friends." 

"  You  speak  disparagingly.     Has  she  a  fault?  " 

"  The  greatest  a  woman  can  have :  she  lacks  that  one 
quality  that  would  make  her  a  ( joy  forever. ' " 

"Your  severity  makes  you  unkind.  And  yet,  do  you 
know  she  is  greatly  liked.  Nay,  she  has  been  loved.  Per- 
haps when  you  come  to  know  her  a  little  hetter  (I  do  not 
conceal  from  you  that  I  have  heard  something  of  your 
story),  you  will  think  more  tenderly  of  her.  Eemember, 
'  beauty  is  only  skin  deep/ '' 

"Yes/' — with  a  light  laugh, — "But  'ugliness  goes  to 
the  bone/  * 

"  That  is  the  retort  discourteous.  I  see  it  is  time  wasted 
to  plead  my  friend's  cause.  Although,  perhaps/' — re- 
proachfully,— "not  blessed  with  actual  beauty,  still " 

"No,  there's  not  much  beauty  about  her,"  says  Sh 
Penthony,  with  something  akin  to  a  groan.  Then,  "I 
beg  your  pardon,"  he  murmurs  ;  "  pray  excuse  me.  Why 
should  I  trouble  a  stranger  with  my  affairs  ? "  He  stands 
aside,  with  a  slight  bow,  to  let  her  pass.  "And  you  won't 
tell  me  your  name  ?  "  he  cannot  resist  saying  before  losing 
eight  of  her. 

"  Make  haste  with  your  dressing ;  you  shall  know 
then,"  glancing  back  at  him,  with  a  bewitching  smile. 

"Be  sure  I  shall  waste  no  time.  If,  in  my  hurry,  I 
appear  to  less  advantage  than  usual  to-night,  you  must 
not  be  the  one  to  blame  me." 

"A  very  fair  beginning,"  says  Cecil,  as  she  slips  away. 
"  Now  I  must  be  firm.  But,  oh  dear,  oh  dear  !  he  is  much 
handsomer  even  than  I  thought." 


MOLL  y  BA  Wtf. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

M  If  I  am  not  worth  the  wooing, 
I  surely  am  not  worth  the  winning." 

— Miles  Standisk. 

TR&  minutes,  selfishly  thoughtless  of  all  but  themselves, 
fly  rapidly.  Cecil  makes  her  way  to  the  drawing-room, 
/vhere  she  :s  followed  presently  by  Molly,  then  by  Lut- 
trell ;  but,  as  these  two  latter  refuse  to  converse  with  each 
other,  conversation  is  rather  one-sided. 

Mr.  Amherst,  contrary  to  his  usual  custom,  appears 
very  early  on  the  field,  evidently  desirous  of  enjoying  the 
fray  to  its  utmost.  He  looks  quite  jubilant  and  fresh 
for  him,  and  his  nose  is  in  a  degree  sharper  than  its 
wont.  He  opens  an  animated  discourse  with  Cecil ;  but 
Lady  Stafford,  although  distrait  and  with  her  mind 
on  the  stretch,  listening  for  every  sound  outside,  replies 
brilliantly,  and,  woman-like,  conceals  her  anxiety  with  her 
tongue. 

At  length  the  dreaded  moment  comes.  There  is  a  sound 
of  footfalls,  nearer — nearer  still — then,  "clearer,  deadlier 
than  before/'  and  the  door  opens,  to  discover  Sir  Pen- 
thony  upon  the  threshold. 

Lady  Stafford  is  sitting  within  the  embrasure  of  the 
window. 

"Fortune  favors  me,"  she  says  hurriedly  to  Molly, 
alluding  to  the  other  guests'  non-appearance. 

"  Your  wife  is  staying  with  me/'  Mr.  Amherst  begins, 
complacently  ;  and,  pointing  to  Cecil,  "  Allow  me  to  intro- 
duce you  to " 

"Lady  Stafford,"  Cecil  interrupts,  coming  forward 
while  a  good  deal  of  rich  crimson  mantles  in  her  cheeks. 
She  is  looking  lovely  from  excitement ;  and  her  pretty, 
rounded,  graceful  figure  is  shown  off  to  the  best  advantage 
by  the  heavy  fall  of  the  red  draperies  behind  her. 

Sir  Penthony  gazes,  spell-bound,  at  the  gracious  creature 
before  him  ;  the  color  recedes  from  his  lips  and  brow ;  his 
eyes  grow  darker.  Luttrell  with  difficulty  suppresses  a 
smile.  Mr.  Amherst  is  almost  satisfied. 

"You  are  welcome,"  Cecil  says,  with  perfect  self-pos- 
session, putting  out  her  hand  and  absolutely  taking  his; 


172  MOLLY  BAWN. 

for  so  stunned  is  he  by  her  words  that  he  even  forgets  if 
offer  it. 

Drawing  him  into  a  recess  of  the  window,  she  says,  re- 
proachfully, "Why  do  you  look  so  astonished?  Do  you 
not  know  that  you  are  gratifying  that  abominable  old  man  ? 
And  will  you  not  say  you  are  glad  to  see  me  after  all  these 
long  three  years  ?  " 

"I  don't  understand,"  Sir  Penthony  says,  vaguely. 
"  Are  there  two  Lady  Staffords  ?  And  whose  wife  are 
you?" 

"  Yours  !  Although  you  don't  seem  in  a  hurry  to  claim 
me,"  she  says,  with  a  rarely  pretty  pout. 

•'Impossible !" 

"  I  am  sorry  to  undeceive  you,  but  it  is  indeed  the  trnth 
I  speak." 

• '  And  whose  picture  did  I  get  ?  "  he  asks,  a  faint  glim- 
mer of  the  real  facts  breaking  in  upon  him. 

"  The  parlor-maid's,"  says  Cecil,  now  the  strain  is  off 
her,  laughing  heartily  and  naturally, — so  much  so  that  the 
other  occupants  of  the  room  turn  to  wonder  enviously 
what  is  going  on  behind  the  curtains.  "  The  parlor-maid  ! 
And  such  a  girl  as  she  was  !  Do  you  remember  her  nose  ? 
It  was  celestial.  When  that  deed  on  which  we  agreed  was 
sealed,  signed,  and  delivered,  without  hope  of  change,  I 
meant  to  send  you  my  real  photo,  but  somehow  I  didn't. 
I  waited  until  we  should  meet ;  and  now  we  have  met 

and Why  do  you  look  so  disconsolate  ?  Surely,  surely, 

I  am  an  improvement  on  Mary  Jane  ?  " 

"It  isn't  that/'  he  says,  "but — what  a  fool  I  have  been  \" 

"You  have  indeed,"  quickly.  "  The  idea  of  letting  that 
odious  old  man  see  your  discomfiture  !  By  the  bye,  does 
my  'ugliness  go  to  the  bone/  Sir  Penthony  ?" 

"  Don't !     When  I  realize  my  position  I  hate  myself." 

"Could  you  not  even  see  my  hair  was  yellow,  whilst 
Mary  Jane's  was  black, — a  sooty  "black?" 

"How  could  I  see  anything?  Your  veil  was  so  thick, 
and,  besides,  I  never  doubted  the  truth  of " 

"Oh,  that  veil  !  What  trouble  I  had  with  it !  "  laughs 
Cecil.  "First  I  doubled  it,  and  then  nearly  died  with 
fright  lest  you  should  imagine  me  the  Pig-faced  Lady,  and 
insist  on  seeing  me." 

"Well,  and  if  I  had  ?" 

"Without  doubt  you  would  have  fallen  in  love  with 
i::-'/'  coquettishly. 


MOLLY  BAWN.  178 

"  Would  not  that  have  been  desirable  ?  It  is  not  a 
good  thing  for  a  man  to  fall  in  love  with  the  woman  he  is 
going  to  marry  ?  " 

"Not  unless  the  woman  falls  in  love  with  him,"  with  a 
little  expressive  nod  that  speaks  volumes. 

"  Ah  !  true,"  says  Sir  Peiithony,  rather  nettled. 

"  However,  you  showed  no  vulgar  curiosity  on  the  oc- 
casion, although  I  think  Mr.  Lowry,  who  supported  you  at 
the  last  moment,  suggested  the  advisability  of  seeing  your 
bride.  Ah,  that  reminds  me  he  lives  near  here.  You  will 
be  glad  to  renew  acquaintance  with  so  particular  a  friend." 

"  There  was  nothing  particular  about  our  friendship  ;  I 
met  him  by  chance  in  London  at  the  time,  and — er — he  did 
as  well  as  any  other  fellow." 

"  Better,  I  should  say.  He  is  a  particular  friend  of 
mine." 

"  Indeed  !  I  shouldn't  have  thought  him  your  style. 
Like  Cassias,  he  used  to  have  a  '  lean  and  hungry  look.' ' 

"  Used  he  ?     I  think  him  quite  good-looking." 

"He  must  have  developed,  then,  in  body  as  in  intellect. 
Three  years  ago  he  was  a  very  gaunt  youth  indeed." 

"  Of  course,  Stafford,"  breaks  in  Mr.  Amherst's  rasping 
voice,  "  we  can  all  make  allowances  for  your  joy  on  seeing 
your  wife  again  after  such  a  long  absence.  But  you  must 
not  mono  polize  her.  Kemember  she  is  the  life  of  our  party. " 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Amherst.  What  a  delightful  compli- 
ment !  "  says  Cecil,  with  considerable  empressement.  "  Sir 
Penthony  was  just  telling  me  what  an  enjoyable  voyage  he 
had  ;  and  I  was  congratulating  him.  There  is  nothing  on 
earth  so  depressing  or  so  humiliating  as  sea-sickness.  Don't 
you  agree  with  me  ?  " 

Mr.  Amherst  mutters  something  in  which  the  word 
"  brazen  "  is  distinctly  heard  ;  while  Cecil,  turning  to  her 
companion,  says  hastily,  holding  out  her  hand,  with  a  soft, 
graceful  movement : 

"  We  are  friends  ?" 

"  Forever,  I  trust,"  he  replies,  taking  the  little  plump 
white  hand  within  his  own,  and  giving  it  a  hearty  squeeze. 


To  some  the  evening  is  a  long  one, — to  Luttrell  and 
Molly,  for  instance,  who  are  at  daggers  drawn  and  main- 
tain a  dignified  silence  toward  each  other. 


174  MOLLY  BAWN. 

Tedcastle,  indeed,  holds  his  head  so  high  th&i  #  by 
chance  his  gaze  should  rest  in  Molly's  direction,  it  must 
perforce  pass  over  her  without  fear  of  descending  to  her 
face.  (This  is  wise,  because  to  look  at  Molly  is  to  find  one's 
self  disarmed.)  There  is  an  air  of  settled  hostility  about 
him  that  angers  her  beyond  all  words. 

"  What  does  he  mean  by  glowering  like  that,  and  look- 
ing as  though  he  could  devour  somebody  ?  How  differost 
he  used  to  be  in  dear  old  Brooklyn  !  Who  could  have 
thought  he  would  turn  out  such  a  Tartar  ?  Well,  there  is 

no  knowing  any  man  ;  and  yet It  is  a  pity  not  to  give 

him  something  to  glower  about,"  thinks  Miss  Massereene, 
in  an  access  of  rage,  and  forthwith  deliberately  sets  herself 
out  to  encourage  Shadwell  and  Mr.  Potts. 

She  has  a  brilliant  success,  and,  although  secretly  sore 
at  heart,  manages  to  pass  her  time  agreeably,  and,  let  us 
hope,  profitably. 

Marcia,  whose  hatred  toward  her  rival  grows  with 
every  glance  cast  at  her  from  Philip's  eyes,  turns  to  Ted- 
castle  and  takes  him  in  hand.  Her  voice  is  low,  her  man- 
ner subdued,  but  designing.  Whatever  she  may  be  saying 
is  hardly  likely  to  act  as  cure  to  Teddy's  heart-ache ;  at 
least  so  thinks  Cecil,  and,  coming  to  the  rescue,  sends  Sir 
Penthony  across  to  talk  to  him,  and  drawing  him  from  Mar- 
cia's  side,  leads  him  into  a  lengthened  history  of  all  those 
who  have  come  and  gone  in  the  old  regiment  since  he  sold  out. 

The  ruse  is  successful,  but  leaves  Cecil  still  indignant 
with  Molly.  "  What  a  wretched  little  flirt  she  is  ! "  She 
turns  an  enraged  glance  upon  where  Miss  Massereene  is 
sitting  deep  in  a  discussion  with  Mr.  Potts. 

"Have  you  any  Christian  name  ?"  Molly  is  asking,  with 
a  beaming  smile,  fixing  her  liquid  Irish  eyes  upon  the 
enslaved  Pott?.  "  I  hear  you  addressed  as  Mr.  Potts, — as 
Potts  even — but  never  by  anything  that  might  be  mistaken 
for  a  first  name. ' 

"Yes,"  replies  Mr.  Potts,  proudly.  "I  was  christened 
Plantagenet.  Good  sound,  hasn't  it?  Something  to  do 
with  the  Dark  Ages  and  Pinnock,  only  I  never  remember 
clearly  what.  Our  fellows  have  rather  a  low  way  of  abbre- 
viating it  and  bringing  it  down  to  '  Planty.'  And— would 
you  believe  it  ? — on  one  or  two  occasions  they  have  so  far 
forgotten  themselves  as  to  call  me  'the  regular  Plant/" 

"  What  a  shame  ! "  says  Miss  Massereene,  with  deep 
sympathy. 


MOLLY  BAWN.  17S 

"Let'em/*  says  Mr.  Potts,  heroic,  if  vulgar,  shaking  hii 
crimson  head.  "  It's  fun  to  them,  and  it  s  by  no  means 
'death'  to  me.  It  does  no  harm.  But  it's  a  nuisance  to 
have  one's  mother  put  to  the  trouble  of  concocting  a  fine 
name,  if  one  doesn't  get  the  benefit  of  it." 

"  I  agree  with  you.  Were  I  a  man,  and  rejoiced  in 
such  a  name  as  Plantagenet,  I  would  insist  upon  having 
every  syllable  of  it  distinctly  sounded,  or  I'd  know  the 
reason  why.  '  All  or  nothing '  should  be  my  motto. " 

"  I  never  think  of  it,  I  don't  see  my  wife's  cards/'  says 
Mr.  Potts,  who  has  had  a  good  deal  of  champagne,  and  is 
rather  moist  about  the  eyes.  ' ' '  Mrs.  Plantagenet  Potts ' 
would  look  well,  wouldn't  it  ?  " 

"  Very  aristocratic/'  says  false  Molly,  with  an  admiring 
nod.  "  I  almost  think, — I  am  not  quite  sure, — but  I  almost 
think  I  would  marry  a  man  to  bear  a  name  like  that." 

"Would  you?"  cries  Mr.  Potts,  his  tongue  growing 
freer,  while  enthusiasm  sparkles  in  every  feature.  "If  I 
only  thought  that,  Miss  Molly " 

"  How  pretty  Mrs.  Darley  is  looking  to-night !  "  inter- 
rupts Molly,  adroitly  ;  "  what  a  clear  complexion  she  has  ! 
— just  like  a  child's." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  says  Mr.  Potts.  "  Children  don't  re- 
quire '  cream  of  roses'  and  '  Hebe  bloom '  and — and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  you  know — to  get  'emselves  up." 

"  Ah  !  my  principal  pity  for  her  is  that  she  doesn't  seem 
to  have  anything  to  say." 

"  Englishwomen  never  have,  as  a  rule  ;  they  are  dull  to 
the  last  degree.  Now,  you  are  a  singular  exception." 

"English  !  I  am  not  English,"  says  Molly,  with  exag- 
gerated disgust.  "  Do  not  offend  me.  I  am  Irish — alto>. 
gether,  thoroughly  Irish, — heart  and  mind  a  Paddy." 

"No  !  are  you,  by  Jove  ?"  says  Mr.  Potts.  "So  am  I 
— at  least,  partly  so.  My  mother  is  Irish." 

So  she  had  been  English,  Welsh,  and  Scotch  on  various 
occasions ;  there  is  scarcely  anything  Mrs.  Potts  had  not 
been.  There  was  even  one  memorable  occasion  on  which 
she  had  had  Spanish  blood  in  her  veins,  and  (according  to 
Plantagenet's  account)  never  went  out  without  a  lace 
mantilla  flowing  from  her  foxy  head.  It  would,  indeed,  be 
rash  to  fix  on  any  nationality  to  which  the  venerable  lady 
might  not  lay  claim,  when  her  son's  interests  so  willed  it. 

"She  came  from — er — Gal  way,"  he  says  now;  "good 
old  family  too — but — out  at  elbows  and — and — that." 


176  MOLLY  BAWN. 

"Yes  ?"  Molly  says,  interested.     "And  her  name  ?" 

"  Blake,"  replies  he,  unblushingly,  knowing  there  never 
•was  a  Blake  that  did  not  come  out  of  Galway. 

"I  feel  quite  as  though  I  had  known  you  forever,"  saya 
Mollv,  much  pleased.  "  You  know  my  principal  crime  is 
my  Hibernian  extraction,  which  perhaps  makes  me  cling  to 
the  fact  more  and  more.  Mr.  Amherst  cannot  forgive  me 
— my  father." 

"  Yet  he  was  of  good  family,  I  believe,  and  all  that  ?  " 
questioningly. 

"  Beyond  all  doubt.  What  a  question  for  you  to  ask  ! 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  an  Irishman  who  wasn't  of  good 
family  ?  My  father  " — with  a  mischievous  smile — "  was  a 
direct  descendant  of  King  O'Toole  or  Brian  Boru, — I  don't 
know  which  ;  and  if  the  king  had  only  got  his  own,  my  dear 
brother  would  at  this  moment  be  dispensing  hospitality  in 
a  palace." 

"You  terrify  me,"  said  Mr.  Potts,  profoundly  serious. 
"  Why,  the  blood  of  all  the  Howards  would  be  weak  as 
water  next  to  yours.  Not  that  there  is  anything  to  be  sur- 
prised at ;  for  if  ever  there  was  any  one  in  the  world  who 
ought  to  be  a  princess  it  is " 

"Molly,  will  you  sing  us  something?"  Lady  Stafford 
breaks  in,  impatiently,  at  this  juncture,  putting  a  stop  to 
Mr.  Potts's  half-finished  compliment. 


"  Molly,  I  want  to  speak  to  you  for  a  moment,"  Luttrell 
says  next  day,  coming  upon  her  suddenly  in  the  garden. 

<  Yes  ?"  coldly.     "  Well,  hurry,  then  ;  they  are  waiting 
for  me  in  the  tennis-ground." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  some  one  is  always  waiting  for 
you  now  when  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  says  the  young 
man,  bitterly. 

"For  me?"  with  a  would-be-astonished  uplifting  of 
her  straight  brows.  "  Oh,  no,  I  am  not  in  such  request  at 
Herst.  I  am  ready  to  listen  to  you  at  any  time  ;  although 
I  must  confess  I  do  not  take  kindly  to  lecturing." 

'Do  I  lecture  you?" 

Do  not  let  us  waste  time  going  into  details  :  ask  me 
this  all-important  question  and  let  me  be  gone." 

I  want  to  know" — severely,  yet  anxiously — "whether 
jou  really  meant  all  you  said  yesterday  morning  ?  " 


MOLL  Y  BA  Wtf.  i77 

*'  Yesterday  morning  ! "  says  Miss  Massereerie,  running 
all  her  ten  little  white  fingers  through  her  rebellious  locks, 
and  glancing  up  at  him  despairingly.  "  Do  you  really  ex- 
pect me  to  remember  all  I  may  have  said  yesterday  morn- 
ing? Think  how  long  ago  it  is." 

"  Shall  I  refresh  your  memory  ?  You  gave  me  to  under- 
stand that  if  our  engagement  came  to  an  end  you  would  be 
rather  relieved  than  otherwise." 

"Did  I ?  How  very  odd  !  Yes,  by  the  bye,  I  do  recol- 
lect something  of  the  Kind.  And  you  led  up  to  it,  did  you 
not  ? — almost  asked  me  to  say  it,  I  think,  by  your  unkind 
remarks." 

"Let  us  keep  to  the  truth,"  says  Luttrell,  sternly. 
"  You  know  such  an  idea  would  never  cross  my  mind. 
While  you — I  hardly  know  what  to  think.  All  last  night 
you  devoted  yourself  to  Shad  well." 

"  That  is  wrong ;  he  devoted  himself  to  me.  Besides, 
I  spoke  a  little  to  Mr.  Potts." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  you  could  not  be  satisfied  to  let  even 
an  idiot  like  Potts  go  free." 

"  Idiot  !  Good  gracious  !  are  you  talking  of  your  friend 
Mr.  Potts?  Why,  I  was  tired  to  death  of  hearing  his 
praises  sung  in  my  ears  morning,  noon,  and  night  at  Brook- 
lyn ;  and  now,  because  I  am  barely  civil  to  him,  he  must  be 
called  an  idiot !  That  is  rather  severe  on  him,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  Never  mind  Potts.  I  am  thinking  principally  of 
Shad  well.  Of  course,  you  are  quite  at  liberty  to  spend  your 
time  with  whom  you  choose,  but  at  all  events  I  have  the 
right  to  know  what  you  mean  seriously  to  do.  You  have 
to  decide  between  Shad  well  and  me." 

"I  shall  certainly  not  be  rude  to  Philip/'  Molly  says, 
decisively,  leaning  against  the  trunk  of  a  flowering  tree,  and 
raising  defiant,  beautiful  violet  eyes  to  his.  "You  seem  to 
pass  your  time  very  agreeably  with  Marcia.  I  do  not  com- 
plain, mind,  but  I  like  fairness  in  all  things." 

"  I  thought  little  country  girls  like  you  were  all  sweet- 
ness, and  freshness,  and  simplicity,"  says  Luttrell,  with 
sudden  vehemence.  "  What  lies  one  hears  in  one's  life- 
time !  Why,  you  might  give  lessons  in  coquetry  and  cruelty 
to  many  a  town-bred  woman." 

"  Might  I  ?  I  am  glad  you  appraise  me  so  highly.  I 
am  glad  I  have  escaped  all  the  '  sweetness,  and  freshness/ 
and  general  imbecility  the  orthodox  village  maiden  is  sup- 
posed to  possess.  Though  why  a  girl  must  necessarily  be 


178 


MOLLY  BAWtf. 


ievoid  of  wit  simply  because  she  has  spent  her  time  in 

food,  healthy  air,  is  a  thing  that  puzzles  me.  Have  you 
elayed  me  only  to  say  this  ?  " 

"  No,  Molly,"  cries  Luttrell,  desperately,  while  Molly, 
with  cool  fingers  and  a  calm  face,  plucks  a  flower  to  pieces, 
"it  is  impossible  you  can  have  so  soon  forgotten.  Think 
of  all  the  happy  days  at  Brooklyn,  all  the  vows  we  inter- 
changed. Is  there  inconstancy  in  the  very  air  at  Herst  ?  " 

His  words  are  full  of  entreaty,  his  manner  is  not.  There 
is  an  acidity  about  the  latter  that  irritates  Molly. 

"  All  Irish  people  are  fickle,"  she  says  recklessly,  "  and 
/am  essentially  Irish." 

"All  Irish  people  are  kind-hearted,  and  you  are  not  so," 
retorts  he.  "Every  hour  yields  me  an  additional  pang. 
For  the  last  two  days  you  have  avoided  me, — you  do  not 
care  to  speak  to  me, — you " 

"  How  can  I,  when  you  spend  youi  entire  time  upbraid- 
ing me  and  accusing  me  of  things  of  which  I  am  inno- 
cent?" 

"  I  neither  accuse  nor  upbraid  ;  I  only  say  that " 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  you  can  say  much  more," — mali- 
ciously,— "because — I  see  Philip  coming." 

He  has  taken  her  hand,  but  now,  stung  by  her  words  and 
her  evident  delight  at  Shadwell's  proximity,  flings  it  furi- 
ously from  him. 

"If  so,  it  is  time  I  went,"  he  says,  and  turning  abruptly 
from  her,  walks  toward  the  corner  that  must  conceal  him 
from  view. 

A  passing  madness  seizes  Molly.  Fully  conscious  that 
Luttrell  is  still  within  hearing,  fatally  conscious  that  it  is 
within  her  power  to  wound  him  and  gain  a  swift  revenge 
for  all  the  hard  words  she  chooses  to  believe  he  has  show- 
ered down  on  her,  she  sings, — slightly  altering  the  ideas  of 
the  poet  to  suit  her  own  taste, — she  sings,  as  though  to  the 
^Dproaching  Philip  : 

"He  is  coming,  my  love,  my  sweet  I 

Was  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  know  it  and  beat, 
Had  it  lain  for  a  century  dead." 

She  smiles  coquettishly,  and  glances  at  Shadwell  from 
under  her  long  dark  lashes.  He  is  near  enough  to  hear  and 
understand  ;  so  is  Luttrell.  With  a  suppressed  curse  the 
latter  grinds  his  heel  into  the  innocent  gravel  and  departs. 


MOLL  Y  BA  Wtf. 


CHAPTER  XVL 

*'Love  is  hurt  with  jar  and  fret, 
Love  is  made  a  vague  regret, 
Eyes  with  idle  tears  are  wet." 

—  The  Miller's  Daughter. 

IT  is  evening ;  the  shadows  are  swiftly  gathering.  Al- 
ready the  dusk — sure  herald  of  night — is  here.  Above  in 
the  trees  the  birds  are  crooning  their  last  faint  songs  and 
ruffling  their  feathers  on  their  night- perches. 

How  short  the  days  have  grown  !  Even  into  the  very 
morning  of  sweet  September  there  has  fallen  a  breath  of 
winter, — a  chill,  cold  breath  that  tells  us  summer  lies  be- 
hind. 

Luttrell,  with  downcast  eyes  and  embittered  heart, 
tramples  through  the  same  green  wood  (now,  alas,  fuller  of 
fallen  leaves)  where  first,  at  Herst,  he  and  Molly  re-met. 

With  a  temperament  as  warm  but  less  hopeful  than 
hers,  he  sees  the  imaginary  end  that  lies  before  him  and  his 
beloved.  She  has  forsaken  him,  she  is  the  bride  of  another, 
— that  other  is  Shadwell.  She  is  happy  with  him.  This 
last  thought,  strange  to  say,  is  the  unkindest  cut  of  all. 

He  has  within  his  hand  a  stout  stick  he  took  from  a  tree 
as  he  walked  along ;  at  this  point  of  the  proceeding  he 
breaks  it  in  two  and  flings  it  to  one  side.  Happy  !  away 
from  him,  with  perhaps  only  a  jesting  recollection  of  all 
the  sweet  words,  the  tender  thoughts  he  has  bestowed  upon 
her !  The  thought  is  agony ;  and,  if  so,  what  will  the 
reality  be  ? 

At  all  events  he  need  not  witness  it.  He  will  throw  up 
his  commission,  and  go  abroad, — that  universal  refuge  for 
broken  hearts  ;  though  why  we  must  intrude  our  griefs  and 
low  spirits  and  general  unpleasantnesses  upon  our  foreign 
neighbors  is  a  subject  not  yet  sufficiently  canvassed.  It 
seems  so  unkind  toward  our  foreign  neighbors. 

A  rather  shaky  but  consequently  picturesque  bridge 
stretches  across  a  little  stream  that  slowly,  lovingly  babbles 
through  this  part  of  the  wood.  Leaning  upon  its  parapet, 
Luttrell  gives  himself  up  a  prey  to  gloomiest  forebodings, 
and  with  the  utmost  industry  calls  up  before  him  all  the 
most  miserable  possibilities.  He  has  reached  the  verge  of 


180  MOLL  Y  £A  WN. 

suicide, — in  a  moment  more  (in  his  "mind's  eye")  he  will 
be  over,  when  a  delicious  voice  behind  him  says,  de- 
murely: 

"  May  I  pass,  please  ?  " 

It  is  Molly  :  such  a  lovely  Molly  ! — such  a  naughty  unre- 
pentant, winsome  Molly,  with  the  daintiest  and  widest  of 
straw  hats,  twined  with  wild  flowers,  thrown  somewhat 
recklessly  toward  the  back  of  her  head. 

"I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you/'  says  this  apparition,  gazing 
at  him  unflinchingly  with  big,  innocent  eyes,  "  but  I  do 
not  think  there  is  room  on  this  bridge  for  two  to  pass." 

Luttrell  instantly  draws  his  tall,  slight,  handsome  figure 
to  its  fullest  height,  and,  without  looking  at  her,  literally 
crushes  himself  against  the  frail  railing  behind  him,  lest  by 
any  means  he  should  touch  her  as  she  passes.  But  she 
seems  in  no  hurry  to  pass. 

"It  is  my  opinion,"  she  says,  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone  of 
warning,  "that  those  wooden  railings  have  seen  their  best 
days ;  and  if  you  try  them  much  harder  you  will  find,  if 
not  a  watery  grave,  at  all  events  an  exceedingly  moist 
coat." 

There  is  so  much  truth  in  this  remark  that  Luttrell  sees 
the  wisdom  of  abstaining  from  further  trial  of  their 
strength,  and,  falling  into  an  easier  position,  makes  as 
though  he  too  would  leave  the  bridge  by  the  side  from 
which  she  came  on  it.  This  brings  them  nearly  face  to 
face. 

Now,  dear  reader,  were  you  ever  in  the  middle  of  a 
crossing,  eager  to  reach  the  other  side  of  the  street  ?  And 
did  you  ever  meet  anybody  coming  toward  you  on  that 
.crossing,  also  anxious  to  reach  his  other  side  of  the  street  ? 
And  did  you  ever  find  yourself  and  that  person  politely 
dancing  before  each  other  for  a  minute  or  so,  debarring 
•each  other's  progress,  because,  unhappily,  both  your 
thoughts  led  you  in  the  same  direction  ?  And  did  you 
ever  feel  an  irresistible  desire  to  stop  short  and  laugh 
aloud  in  that  person's  face?  Because  now  all  this  hap- 
pens to  Molly  and  Luttrell. 

Each  appears  full  of  a  dignified  haste  to  quit  the  other's 
society.  Molly  steps  to  the  right,  so  does  Luttrell  to  the 
left,  at  the  very  same  instant ;  Luttrell,  with  angry  correc- 
tion of  his  first  movement,  steps  again  to  his  first  position, 
and  so,  without  pausing,  does  Molly.  Each  essay  only 
leaves  them  as  they  began,  looking  fair  into  each 


MOLL  Y  BA  Wtf.  181 

eyes.  When  this  has  happened  three  times,  Molly  stops 
short  and  bursts  into  a  hearty  laugh. 

"Do  try  to  stay  still  for  one  second,"  she  says,  with  a 
smile,  "  and  then  perhaps  we  shall  manage  it.  Thank  you." 

Then,  being  angry  with  herself,  for  her  mistaken  merri- 
ment, like  a  true  woman  she  vents  her  displeasure  upon  him. 

"I  suppose  you  knew  I  was  coming  here  this  evening/' 
she  exclaims,  with  ridiculous  injustice,  "and  followed  te 
spoil  any  little  peace  I  might  have  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  coming  here.  Had  I  known 
i^ » 

A  pause. 

"Well," — imperiously, — "why  do  you  hesitate?  Say 
the  unkind  thing.  I  hate  innuendoes.  Had  you  known 

"I  should  certainly  have  gone  the  other  way."  Coldly: 
"  Meanly  as  you  may  think  of  me,  I  have  not  fallen  so  low 
that  I  should  seek  to  annoy  you  by  my  presence." 

"  Then  without  doubt  you  have  come  to  this  quiet  place 
searching  for  solitude,  in  which  to  think  out  all  your  hard 
thoughts  of  me." 

"I  never  think  hardly  of  you,  Molly." 

"  You  certainly  were  not  thinking  kindly." 

Now,  he  might  easily  have  abashed  her  at  this  point  by 
asking  "where  was  the  necessity  to  think  of  her  at  all  ? 
but  there  is  an  innate  courtesy,  a  natural  gentleness  about 
Luttrell  that  utterly  forbids  him. 

"And,"  goes  on  his  tormentor,  the  more  angry  that  she 
cannot  induce  him  to  revile  her,  "  I  do  not  wish  you  to  call 
me  '  Molly '  any  more.  Only  those  who — who  love  me  call 
me  by  that  name.  Marcia  and  my  grandfather  (two  people 
I  detest)  call  me  Eleanor.  You  can  follow  their  example 
for  the  future." 

"  There  will  not  be  any  future.  I  have  been  making  up 
my  mind,  and — I  shall  sell  out  and  go  abroad  immedi- 
ately." 

"  Indeed  !  "  There  was  a  slight,  a  very  slight,  tremble 
in  her  saucy  tones.  "  What  a  sudden  determination  !  Well, 
I  hope  you  will  enjoy  yourself.  It  is  charming  weather  for 
a  pleasure-trip." 

"It  is/' 

"  You  shouldn't  lose  much  more  time,  however.  Winter 
will  soon  be  here ;  and  it  must  be  dismal  in  the  extreme 
traveling  in  frost  and  snow. 


182  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

"I  assure  you" — bitterly — "there  is  no  occasion  to 
nurry  me.  I  am  as  anxious  to  go  as  ever  you  could 
desire." 

"  May  I  ask  when  you  are  going,  #nd  where  ?  " 

"  No,  you  may  not,"  cries  he,  at  length  fiercely  goaded 
past  endurance  ;  "only,  be  assured  of  this  :  I  am  going  as 
far  from  you  as  steam  can  take  me  ;  I  am  going  where  your 
fatal  beauty  and  heartlessness  cannot  touch  me ;  where  I 
shall  not  be  maddened  day  by  day  by  your  coquetry,  and 
where  perhaps — in  time — I  may  learn  to  forget  you." 

His  indignation  has  made  him  appear  at  least  two  inches 
taller  than  his  ordinary  six  feet.  His  face  is  white  as 
death,  his  lips  are  compressed  beneath  his  blonde  mous- 
tache, his  dark  blue  eyes — not  unlike  Molly's  own — are 
flashing  fire. 

"Thank  you,"  says  his  companion,  with  exaggerated 
emphasis  and  a  graceful  curtsey ;  "  thank  you  very  much, 
Mr.  Luttrell.  I  had  no  idea,  when  I  lingered  here  for  one 
little  moment,  I  was  going  to  hear  so  many  home  truths.  I 
certainly  do  not  want  to  hear  any  more." 

"Then  why  don't  you  go?"  puts  in  Luttrell,  savagely. 

"  I  would — only — perhaps  you  may  not  be  aware  of  it, 
but  you  have  your  foot  exactly  on  the  very  end  of  my 
gown." 

Luttrell  raises  his  foot  and  replaces  it  upon  the  shaking 
planks  with  something  that  strongly  resembles  a  stamp, — 
so  strongly  as  to  make  the  treacherous  bridge  quake  and 
tremble  ;  while  Molly  moves  slowly  away  from  him  until 
she  reaches  the  very  edge  of  their  uncertain  resting-place. 

Here  she  pauses,  glances  backward,  and  takes  another 
step,  only  to  pause  again, — this  time  with  decision. 

"  Teddy,"  she  says,  softly. 

No  answer. 

"  Dear  Teddy,"  more  softly  still 

No  answer. 

"Dearest  Teddy." 

Still  no  answer. 

"Teddy — darling!"  murmurs  Molly,  in  the  faintest, 
fondest  tone,  using  toward  him  for  the  first  time  this  ten- 
derest  of  all  tender  love  words. 

In  another  moment  his  arms  are  around  her,  her  head  is 
on  his  breast.  He  is  vanquished, — routed  with  slaughter. 

In  the  heart  of  this  weak-minded,  infatuated  young  mar-, 
there  lingers  not  the  slightest  thought  of  bitterness  toward 


MOLLY  BAWtf.  188 

this  girl  who  has  caused  him  so  many  hours  of  torment, 
and  whose  cool,  soft  cheek  now  rests  contentedly  against 
bis. 

"'My  love, — my  own, — you  do  care  for  me  a  little?"  he 
aaks,  in  tones  that  tremble  with  gladness  and  sorrow,  and 
disbelief. 

"  Of  course,  foolish  boy."  With  a  bright  smile  that 
revives  him.  "  That  is,  at  times,  when  you  do  not  speak 
to  me  as  though  I  were  the  fell  destroyer  of  your  peace  or 
the  veriest  shrew  that  ever  walked  the  earth.  Sometimes, 
you  know," — with  a  sigh, — "you  are  a  very  uncomfortable 
Teddy." 

She  slips  a  fond  warm  arm  around  his  shoulder  and 
caresses  the  back  of  his  neck  with  her  soft  fingers.  Co- 
quette she  may  be,  flirt  she  is  to  her  finger-tips,  but  nothing 
can  take  away  from  her  lovableness.  To  Luttrell  she  is  at 
this  moment  the  most  charming  thing  on  which  the  sun 
ever  shone. 

"How  can  you  be  so  unkind  to  me,"  he  says,  "so  cold  ? 
Don't  you  know  it  breaks  my  heart?  " 

"/  cold!"  With  reproachful  wonder.  "/  unkind! 
Oh,  Teddy  !  and  what  are  you  ?  Think  of  all  you  said  to 
me  yesterday  and  this  morning ;  and  now,  now  you  called 
me  a  coquette  !  What  could  be  worse  than  that  ?  To  say 
it  of  me,  of  all  people  !  Ted," — with  much  solemnity, — 
"stare  at  me, — stare  hard, — and  see  do  I  look  the  very 
least  lit  in  the  world  like  a  coquette  ?" 

He  does  stare  hard,  and  doing  so  forgets  the  question  in 
hand,  remembering  only  that  her  eyes,  her  lips,  her  hair 
are  all  the  most  perfect  of  their  kind. 

"  My  beloved,"  he  whispers,  caressingly. 

"It  is  all  your  own  fault," goes  on  Circe,  strong  in  argu- 
ment. "  When  I  provoke  you  I  care  nothing  for  Philip 
Shadweil,  or  your  Mr.  Potts,  or  any  of  them  :  but  when 
you  are  uncivil  to  me,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  I  am  driven  into 
speaking  to  some  one,  although  I  don't  in  the  least  care  for 
general  admiration,  as  you  well  know." 

He  does  not  know  ;  common  sense  forbids  him  to  know ; 
but  she  is  telling  her  fibs  with  so  much  grace  of  feature 
and  voice  that  he  refuses  to  see  her  sin.  He  tries,  there- 
fore, to  look  as  if  he  agreed  with  her,  and  succeeds  very 
fairly. 

"Then  you  did  not  mean  anything  you  said:  "  he  asks, 


284  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

"Not  a  syllable,"  says  Molly.  "  Though  even  if  I  did 
you  will  forgive  me,  won't  you  ?  You  always  do  forgive 
me,  don't  you  ?  " 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  amount  of  plead- 
ing, sauciness,  coaxing  she  throws  into  the  "won't  you  ?J> 
and  "  don't  you  ?  "  holding  up  her  face,  too,  and  looking  at 
him  out  of  half-shut,  laughing,  violet  eyes. 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  says,  smiling.  "  So  abject  a  subject 
have  I  become  that  I  can  no  longer  conceal  even  from  my- 
self the  fact  that  you  can  wind  me  round  your  little  finger/' 

He  tightens  his  arm  about  her,  and  considering,  I  dare 
say,  she  owes  him  some  return  for  so  humble  a  speech — 
stoops  as  though  to  put  his  lips  to  hers. 

"Not  yet,"  she  says,   pressing  her  fingers  against  his 

mouth.    "  I  have  many  things  to  say  to  you  yet  before 

For  one,  I  am  not  a  coquette  ?  " 

"No." 

"  And  you  are  not  going  abroad  to — forget  me  ?  Oh, 
Teddy!" 

"If  I  went  to  the  world's  end  I  could  not  compass  that. 
No,  I  shall  not  go  abroad  now." 

"And" — half  removing  the  barring  fingers — "I  am  the 
dearest,  sweetest,  best  Molly  to  be  found  anywhere  ?  " 

"  Oh,  darling  !  don't  you  know  I  think  so  ?  "  says  Lut- 
trell,  with  passionate  fondness. 

"And  you  will  never  forgive  yourself  for  making  me  so 
unhappy  ? " 

"Never." 

^  "Very  well," — taking  away  her  hand,  with  a  contented 
sigh, — "now  you  may  kiss  me." 

So  their  quarrel  ends,  as  all  her  quarrels  do,  by  every 
one  being  in  the  wrong  except  herself.  It  is  their  first  bad 
quarrel;  and  although  we  are  told  "the  falling  out  of  faith- 
ful friends  is  but  the  renewal  of  love,"  still,  believe  me, 
each  angry  word  creates  a  gap  in  the  chain  of  love,— a  gap 
that  widens  and  ever  widens  more  and  more,  until  at  length 
comes  the  terrible  day  when  the  cherished  chain  falls  quite 
asunder.  A  second  coldness  is  so  much  easier  than  a  first ! 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 


CHAPTEE  XVII. 

"  One  silly  cross 
Wrought  all  my  loss. 
0  frowning  fortune  ! " 

— The  Passionate  Pilgrim. 

IT  was  an  unfortunate  thing, — nay,  more,  it  was  an  un- 
heard-of thing  (because  for  a  man  to  fall  in  love  with  his 
own  wife  has  in  it  all  the  elements  of  absurdity,  and  makes 
one  lose  faith  in  the  wise  saws  and  settled  convictions  of 
centuries), — but  the  fact  remained.  From  the  moment  Sir 
Penthony  Stafford  came  face  to  face  with  his  wife  in  the 
corridor  at  Herst  he  lost  his  heart  to  her. 

There  only  rested  one  thing  more  to  make  the  catas- 
trophe complete,  and  that  also  came  to  pass  :  Cecil  was 
fully  and  entirely  aware  of  his  sentiments  with  regard  to 
her. 

What  woman  but  knows  when  a  man  loves  her  ?  What 
woman  but  knows  (in  spite  of  all  the  lies  she  may  utter 
to  her  own  heart)  when  a  man  has  ceased  to  love  her  ?  In 
dark  moments,  in  the  cruel  quiet  of  midnight,  has  not  the 
terrible  certainty  of  her  loss  made  her  youth  grow  dead 
within  her  ? 

Cecil's  revenge  has  come,  and  I  hardly  think  she  spares 
it.  Scrupulously,  carefully,  she  adheres  to  her  rdle  of 
friend,  never  for  an  instant  permitting  him  to  break 
through  the  cold  barricade  of  mere  good-fellowship  she  has 
raised  between  them. 

Should  he  in  an  imprudent  moment  seek  to  undermine 
this  barrier,  by  a  word,  a  smile,  sweet  but  chilling,  she  ex- 
presses either  astonishment  or  amusement  at  his  presump- 
tion (the  latter  being  perhaps  the  more  murderous  weapon 
of  the  two,  as  ridicule  is  death  to  love),  and  so  checks 
him. 

To  her  Sir  Penthony  is  an  acquaintance, — a  rather 
amusing  one,  but  still  an  acquaintance  only, — and  so  she 
gives  him  to  understand  ;  while  he  chafes  and  curses  his 
luck  a  good  deal  at  times,  and — grows  desperately  jealous. 

The  development  of  this  last  quality  delights  Cecil.  Her 
flirtation  with  Talbot  Lowry, — not  that  it  can  be  called  a 
flirtation,  being  a  very  one-sided  affair,  the  affection  Talbot 

> 


186  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

entertains  for  her  being  the  only  affection  about  it,— 
carefully  as  he  seeks  to  hide  it,  irritates  Sir  Penthony  be* 
yond  endurance,  and,  together  with  her  marked  coldnes* 
and  apparent  want  of  desire  for  his  society,  renders  him 
thoroughly  unhappy. 

All  this  gratifies  Cecil,  who  is  much  too  real  a  woman 
not  to  find  pleasure  in  seeing  a  man  made  miserable  for 
love  of  her. 

"  I  wish  you  could  bring  yourself  to  speak  to  me  now 
and  then  without  putting  that  odious  '  Sir '  before  my 
name,"  he  says  to  her  one  day.  "  Anybody  would  say  we 
were  utter  strangers." 

"  Well,  and  so  we  are,"  Cecil  replies,  opening  wide  hei 
eyes  in  affected  astonishment.  "  How  can  you  dispute  it  ? 
Why,  you  never  even  saw  me  until  a  few  days  ago." 

"  You  are  my  wife  at  all  events,"  says  the  young  man, 
slightly  discomfited. 

"  Ay,  more's  the  pity,"  murmurs  her  ladyship,  with  such 
a  sudden,  bewitching,  aggravating  smile  as  entirely 
condones  the  incivility  of  her  speech.  Sir  Penthony  smiles 
too. 

"  Cecil — Ois, — a  pretty  name. — It  rhymes  with  kiss,"  he 
sayg,  rather  sentimentally. 

"  So  it  does.  And  Penthony, — what  does  that  rhyme 
with  ?  Tony  —  money.  Ah !  that  was  our  stumbling 
block." 

"  It  might  have  been  a  worse  one.  There  are  more  dis- 
agreeable things  than  money.  There  was  once  upon  a  time 
a  stubborn  mare,  and  even  she  was  made  to  go  by  this  same 
much-abused  money.  By  the  bye," — thoughtfully, — "  you 
don't  object  to  your  share  of  it,  do  you  ?  " 

"  By  no  means.  I  purchased  it  so  dearly  I  have  quite  a 
veneration  for  it." 

"  I  see.  I  don't  think  my  remark  called  for  so  ungra- 
cious a  reply.  To  look  at  you  one  could  hardly  imagine  a 
cruel  sentiment  coming  from  your  lips. " 

'That  shows  how  deceitful  appearances  can  be.  Had 
you  troubled  yourself  to  raise  my  veil  upon  your  wedding- 
day  you  might  have  made  yourself  miserable  for  life. 
Really,  Sir  Penthony,  I  think  you  owe  me  a  debt  of  grati- 
tude." 

"Do  you  ?  Then  I  confess  myself  wwgrateful.  Oh,  Ce- 
cil, had  I  only  known "  Here  he  pauses,  warned  by  the 

superciliousness  of  her  bearing,  and  goes  on  rather  lamely. 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  1S7 

"  Are  you  cold  ?     Shall  I  get  you  a  shawl  ?  "     They  are 
standing  on  the  veranda,  and  the  evening  is  closing  in. 

"  Cold  ?  No.  Who  could  feel  cold  on  so  divine  an  even- 
ing ?  It  reminds  one  of  the  very  heart  of  summer,  and 

Ah  ! "  with  a  little  start  and  a  pleased  smile,  "  here  is  Mr. 
Lowry  coming  across  the  grass." 

"  Lowry  !  It  seems  to  me  he  always  is  coming  across 
the  grass."  Testily.  "Has  he  no  servants,  no  cook,  no 
roof  over  his  head  ?  Or  what  on  earth  brings  him  here, 
morning,  noon,  and  night  ?  " 

"  I  really  think  he  must  come  to  see  me,"  says  Lady 
Stafford,  with  modest  hesitation.  "  He  was  so  much  with 
me  in  town,  off  and  on,  that  I  dare  say  he  misses  me  now. 
He  was  very  attentive  about  bringing  me  flowers  and — and 
that." 

"  No  doubt.  It  is  amazing  how  thoughtful  men  can  be 
on  occasions.  You  like  him  very  much  ?  " 

"  Very  much  indeed.  He  is  amiable,  good-natured,  and 
has  such  kind  brown  eyes." 

"Has  he  ?  "  With  exaggerated  surprise.  "  Is  he  indeed 
all  that  you  say  ?  It  is  strange  how  blind  a  man  can  be  to 
his  neighbor's  virtues,  whatever  he  may  be  to  his  faults. 
Now,  if  I  had  been  asked  my  opinion  of  Talbot  Lowry,  I 
would  have  said  he  was  the  greatest  bore  and  about  ths 
ugliest  fellow  I  ever  met  in  my  life." 

"Well,  of  course,  strictly  speaking,  no  one  could  call 
him  handsome,"  Cecil  says,  feeling  apologetic  on  the  score 
of  Mr.  Lowry  ;  "  but  he  has  excellent  points  ;  and,  after  all, 
with  me,  good  looks  count  for  very  little."  She  takes  a 
calm  survey  of  her  companion's  patrician  features  as  she 
speaks  ;  but  Sir  Penthony  takes  no  notice  of  her  examina- 
tion, as  he  is  looking  straight  before  him  at  nothing  in  the 
world,  as  far  as  she  can  judge. 

"  I  never  meet  him  without  thinking  of  Master  Shallow,** 
he  says,  rather  witheringly.  "  May  I  ask  how  he  man- 
aged to  make  himself  so  endurable  to  you  ?" 

"  In  many  ways.  Strange  as  it  may  appear  to  you,  he 
can  read  poetry  really  charmingly.  Byron,  Tennyson,  ever 
Shakespeare,  he  has  read  to  me  until,"  says  Cecil,  with  en- 
thusiasm, "  he  has  actually  brought  the  tears  into  my  eyes.* 

"I  can  fancy  it,"  says  Sir  Penthony,  with  much  disgust, 
adjusting  his  eyeglass  with  great  care  in  his  right  eye,  the 
better  to  contemplate  the  approach  of  this  modern  hero. 
"  I  can  readily  believe  it.  He  seems  to  me  the  very  person* 


}gg  MOLLY  RAWN. 

fieation  of  a  e  lady's  man/' — a  thorough-paced  carpet  knight. 
When,"  says  Sir  Penthony,  with  careful  criticism,  "I  take 
into  consideration  the  elegant  slimness  of  his  lower  limbs 
and  the  cadaverous  leanness  of  his  under-jaw,  I  can  almost 
see  him  writing  sonnets  to  his  mistress's  eyebrow/' 

"If" — severely — "there  is  one  thing  that  absolutely 
repels  me,  it  is  sarcasm.  Don't  you  be  sarcastic.  It  doesn't 
suit  you.  I  merely  said  Mr.  Lowry  probably  feels  at  a  loss, 
now  his  mornings  are  unoccupied,  as  he  generally  spent 
them  with  me  in  town." 

"  Happy  he.  Were  those  mornings  equally  agreeable  to 
you  ?  " 

"  They  were  indeed.  But,  as  you  evidently  don't  ad- 
mire Talbot,  you  can  hardly  be  expected  to  sympathize 
with  my  enjoyment." 

"I  merely  hinted  I  thought  him  a  conceited  coxcomb  ; 
and  so  I  do.  Ah,  Lowry,  how  d'ye  do  ?  Charmed  to  see 
you.  Warm  evening,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  You  are  come  at  last,  Mr.  Lowry,"  Cecil  says,  with 
sweet  meaning  in  her  tone,  smiling  up  at  him  as  he  stands 
beside  her;  with  no  eyes  but  for  her.  "  What  a  glorious 
day  we  have  had  !  It  makes  one  sad  to  think  it  cannot 
continue.  I  do  so  hate  winter." 

"  Poor  winter  !  "  says  Lowry,  rather  insipidly.  "  It  has 
my  most  sincere  sympathy.  As  for  the  day,  1  hardly  noticed 
its  beauties  :  I  found  it  long." 

"  The  sign  of  an  idler.     Did  you  find  it  very  long  ?  " 

"Very,"  says  Lowry,  with  a  look  that  implies  his  ab- 
sence from  her  side  was  the  sole  cause  of  its  tedium,  and 
such  an  amount  of  emphasis  as  awakens  in  Sir  Penthony 
a  mad  desire  to  horsewhip  him.  Though  how,  in  these 
degenerate  days,  can  one  man  horsewhip  another  because 
he  makes  use  of  that  mild  word  "very"? 

It  certainly  is  a  delicious  evening.  Five  o'clock  has 
crept  on  them  almost  insensibly,  and  tea  has  been  brought 
out  to  the  veranda.  Within/  from  the  drawing-room,  a 
roaring  fire  throws  upon  the  group  outside  white  arms  of 
flame,  as  though  petitioning  them  to  enter  and  accept  its 
warm  invitation. 

Marcia,  bending  over  the  tea-tray,  is  looking  tall  and 
handsome,  and  perhaps  a  degree  less  gloomy  than  usual. 
Philip,  too,  is  present,  also  tall  and  handsome  ;  only  he,  by 
way  of  contrast,  is  looking  rather  more  moody  than  usual. 
Molly  is  absent ;  so  is  Luttrell. 


MOLLY  BAWN.  189 

Mr.  Potts,  hovering  round  the  tea-table,  like  an  over- 
grown clumsy  bee,  is  doing  all  that  mortal  man  can  do  in 
the  way  of  carrying  cups  and  upsetting  spoons.  There  are 
few  things  more  irritating  than  the  clatter  of  falling  spoons, 
but  Mr.  Potts  is  above  irritation,  whatever  his  friends  may 
be,  and  meets  each  fresh  mishap  with  laudable  equanimity. 
He  is  evidently  enjoying  himself,  and  is  also  taking  very 
kindly  to  such  good  things  in  the  shape  of  cake  as  the 
morbid  footman  has  been  pleased  to  bring. 

Sir  Penthony,  who  has  sturdily  declined  to  quit  the 
battle-field,  stands  holding  his  wife's  cup  on  one  side,  while 
Mr.  Lowry  is  supplying  her  with  cake  on  the  other.  There 
is  a  good  deal  of  obstinacy  mingled  with  their  devotion. 

"I  wonder  where  Molly  can  be  ?  "  Lady  Stafford  says, 
at  length.  "I  always  know  by  instinct  when  tea  is  going 
on  in  a  house.  She  will  be  sorry  if  she  misses  hers.  Why 
don't  somebody  go  and  fetch  her  ?  You,  for  instance," 
she  says,  turning  her  face  to  Sir  Penthony. 

"I  would  fly  to  her,"  replies  he,  unmoved,  "but  I  un- 
fortunately don't  know  where  she  is.  Besides,  I  dare  say 
if  I  knew  and  went  I  would  find  myself  unwelcome.  I 
hate  looking  people  up." 

"I  haven't  seen  her  all  day,"  says  Mr.  Potts,  in  an  ag- 
grieved tone,  having  finished  the  last  piece  of  plum-cake, 
and  being  much  exercised  in  his  mind  as  to  whether  it  is 
the  seed  or  the  sponge  he  will  attack  next.  "She  has  been 
out  walking,  or  writing  letters,  or  something,  since  break- 
fast. I  hope  nothing  has  happened  to  her.  Perhaps  if 
we  instituted  a  search " 

At  this  moment,  Molly,  smiling,  gracieuse,  appears  at 
the  open  window  and  steps  on  the  veranda.  She  is  dressed 
in  a  soft  blue  clinging  gown,  and  has  a  flower,  fresh-gath- 
ered, in  her  hair,  another  at  her  throat,  another  held  loosely 
in  her  slender  fingers. 

"  Talk  of  an  angel ! "  says  Philip,  softly,  but  audibly. 

"  Were  you  talking  of  me  ?  "  asks  modest  Molly,  turning 
toward  him. 

"  Well,  if  ever  I  heard  such  a  disgracefully  conceited 
speech  ! "  says  Lady  Stafford,  laughing.  But  Philip  says, 
"  We  were,"  still  with  his  eyes  on  Molly. 

"  Evidently  you  have  all  been  pining  for  me,"  says 
Molly,  gayly.  "  It  is  useless  your  denying  it.  Mr.  Potts," 
— sweetly, — "  leave  me  a  little  cake,  will  you  ?  Don't  eat 
it  all  up.  Knowing  as  you  do  my  weakness  for  seed-cake, 


190  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

I  consider  it  mean  of  you  to  behave  as  you  are  now  do 
ing." 

"  You  shall  have  it  all,"  says  Mr.  Potts,  magnanimously. 
' '  I  devoted  myself  to  the  plum-cake  so  as  to  leave  this  for 
you  ;  so  you  see  I  don't  deserve  your  sneer." 

Philip  straightens  himself,  and  his  moodiness  flies  from 
him.  Marcia,  on  the  contrary,  grows  distrait  and  anxious. 
Molly,  with  the  air  of  a  little  gourmand)  makes  her  whit* 
teeth  meet  in  her  sweet  cake,  and,  with  a  sigh  of  deep  con. 
tent,  seats  herself  on  the  window-sill. 

Mr.  Potts  essays  to  do  likewise.  In  fact,  so  great  is  hia 
haste  to  secure  the  coveted  position  that  he  trips,  loses 
balance,  and  crash  goes  tea,  cup,  and  all — with  which  he 
meant  to  regale  his  idol — on  to  the  stone  at  his  feet. 

"  You  seem  determined  to  outdo  yourself  this  evening, 
Potts,"  Sir  Penthony  says,  mildly,  turning  his  eyeglass 
upon  the  delinquent.  "  First  you  did  all  you  knew  in  the 
way  of  battering  the  silver,  and  now  you  have  turned  your 
kind  attention  on  the  china.  I  really  think,  too,  that  it  is 
the  very  best  china, — Wedgwood,  is  it  not  ?  Only  yester- 
day I  heard  Mr.  Amherst  explaining  to  Lady  Elizabeth 
Eyre,  who  is  rather  a  connoisseur  in  china,  how  blessed  he 
was  in  possessing  an  entire  set  of  Wedgwood  unbroken. 
I  heard  mm  asking  her  to  name  a  day  to  come  and  see  it." 

"  I  don't  think  you  need  pile  up  the  agony  any  higher,59 
Philip  interposes,  laughing,  coming  to  the  rescue  in  his 
grandfather's  absence.  "He  will  never  find  it  out." 

"  I'm  so  awfully  sorry  ! "  Mr.  Potts  says,  addressing 
Marcia,  his  skin  having  by  this  time  borrowed  largely  or 
his  hair  in  coloring.  "It  was  unpardonably  awkward.  I 
don't  know  how  it  happened.  But  I'll  mend  it  again  for 
you,  Miss  Amherst ;  I've  the  best  cement  you  ever  knew 
up-stairs  ;  I  always  carry  it  about  with  me." 

"You  do  right,"  says  Molly,  laughing. 

"  The  hot  tea  won't  affect  it  afterward,"  goes  on  Potts 
triumphantly. 

"  He  is  evidently  in  the  habit  of  going  about  breaking 
people's  pet  china  and  mending  it  again, — knows  all  about 
it,"  murmurs  Sir  Penthony,  sotto  voce,  with  much  interest. 
"  It  isn't  a  concoction  of  your  own,  Potts,  is  it  ?  " 

"  No ;  a  fellow  gave  it  to  me.  The  least  little  touch 
mends,  and  it  never  gives  way  again." 

"  That's  whsbt's-meant  to  do,"  Captain  Mottie  has  the 
audacity  to  say,  very  unwisely.  Of  course  no  one  takes 


MOLL  Y  BA  Wff.  IJfl 

the  faintest  notice.  They  all  with  one  consent  refuse  in- 
dignantly to  see  it ;  and  Longshank's  inevitable  "  Ha,  ha  \" 
falls  horribly  flat.  Only  Molly,  after  a  wild  struggle  with 
her  better  feelings,  gives  way,  and  bursts  into  an  irrepres- 
sible fit  of  laughter,  for  which  the  poor  captain  is  intensely 
grateful. 

Mrs.  Barley,  who  is  doing  a  little  mild  running  with  this 
would-be  Joe  Miller,  encouraged  by  Molly,  laughs  too,  and 
gives  the  captain  to  understand  that  she  thinks  it  a  joke, 
which  is  even  more  than  could  be  expected  of  her. 

A  sound  of  footsteps  upon  the  gravel  beneath  redeems 
any  further  awkwardness.  They  all  simultaneously  crane 
their  necks  over  the  iron  railings,  and  all  at  a  glance  see 
Mr.  Amherst  slowly,  but  surely,  advancing  on  them. 

He  is  not  alone.  Beside  him,  affording  him  the  support 
of  one  arm,  walks  a  short,  stout,  pudgy  little  man,  dressed 
with  elaborate  care,  and  bearing  all  the  distinguishing 
marks  of  the  lowest  breeding  in  his  face  and  figure. 

It  is  Mr.  Buscarlet,  the  attorney,  without  whose  adviee 
Mr.  Ainherst  rarely  takes  a  step  in  business  matters,  and 
for  whom — could  he  be  guilty  of  such  a  thing— he  has  a 
decided  weakness.  Mr.  Amherst  is  frigid  and  cutting. 
Mr.  Buscarlet  is  vulgar  aiid  gushing.  They  say  extremes 
meet.  In  this  case  they  certainly  do,  for  perhaps  he  is 
the  only  person  in  the  wide  world  with  whom  old  Aru- 
herat  gets  on. 

With  Marcia  he  is  a  bugbear, — a  btte  noire.  She  does 
not  even  trouble  herself  to  tolerate  him,  which  is  the  one 
unwise  step  the  wise  Marcia  took  on  her  entrance  into 
Herat 

Now,  as  he  comes  puffing  and  panting  up  the  steps  to  th« 
veranda,  she  deliberately  turns  her  back  on  him. 

"Pick  up  the  ghastly  remains,  Potts,"  Sir  Peuthony 
Bays,  hurriedly,  alluding  to  the  shattered  china.  Mr.  Am- 
herst is  still  on  the  lowest  step,  having  discarded  Mr.  Bus- 
carlet's  arm.  "If  there  is  one  thing  mine  host  abhors 
more  than  another,  it  is  broken  china.  If  he  catches  you 
red-handed,  I  shudder  for  the  consequences." 

"What  an  ogre  you  make  him  out !"  says  Molly.  "Has 
he,  then,  a  private  Bastile,  or  a  poisoned  dagger,  this  ter- 
rible old  man  ?  " 

"  Neither.  He  clings  to  the  traditions  of  the  '  good  old 
times.'  Skinning  alive,  which  was  a  favorite  pastime  in 
the  dark  ages,  is  the  eort  of  thing  he  affects.  Dear  cid 


}9f  MOLL  V  BA  WX. 

gentleman,  he  cannot  bear  to  see  ancient  usages  sink  int« 
oblivion.  Here  he  is." 

Mr.  Potts,  having  carefully  removed  all  traces  of  hia 
handiness,  gazes  with  recovered  courage  on  the  coming  foe. 

"  Have  some  tea,  grandpapa/.5  says  Marcia,  attentively, 
ignoring  Mr.  Bu  scarlet. 

"No,  thank  you.  Mr.  Buscarlet  will  probably  have 
some,  if  he  is  asked,"  says  grandpapa,  severely. 

"  Ah,  thank  you  ;  thank  you.  I  will  take  a  little  tea 
from  Miss  Amherst's  fair  hands,"  says  the  man  of  law,  rob- 
bing his  own  ecstatically  as  he  speaks. 

"Mr.  Longshanks,  give  this  to  Mr.  Buscarlet/'  says 
Marcia,  turning  to  Longshanks  with  a  cup  of  tea,  although 
Mr.  Buscarlet  is  at  her  other  elbow,  ready  to  receive  it 
from  her  "  fair  hands/' 

Mr.  Longshanks  does  as  he  is  bidden  ;  and  the  attorney, 
having  received  it,  walks  away  discomfited,  a  fresh  score 
against  this  haughty  hostess  printed  on  his  heart.  He  has 
the  good  luck  to  come  face  to  face  with  pretty  Molly,  who 
is  never  unkind  to  any  one  but  the  man  who  loves  her. 
They  have  met  before,  so  he  has  no  difficulty  about  ad- 
dressing her,  though,  after  his  rebuff  from  Marcia,  he  feels 
some  faint  pangs  of  diffidence. 

' '  Is  it  not  a  glorious  evening  ?  "  he  says,  with  hesitation, 
hardly  knowing  how  he  will  be  received;  "what  should 
we  all  do  but  for  the  weather  ?  " 

"Is  it  not  ?"  says  Molly,  with  the  utmost  cheerfulness, 
smiling  on  him.  She  is  so  sorry  for  his  defeat,  which  she 
witnessed,  that  her  smile  is  one  of  her  kindest.  "If  this 
weather  might  only  continue,  how  happy  we  should  be. 
Even  the  flowers  would  remain  with  us."  She  holds  up 
the  white  rose  in  her  hand  for  his  admiration. 

"  A  lovely  flower,  but  not  so  lovely  as  its  possessor," 
says  this  insufferable  old  lawyer,  with  a  smirk. 

''  Oh,  Mr.  Buscarlet  !  I  doubt  you  are  a  sad  flirt,"  says 
Miss  Molly,  with  an  amused  glance.  "What  would  Mrs. 
Buscarlet  say  if  she  knew  you  were  going  about  paying 
compliments  all  round  ?" 

"  Not  all  round,  Miss  Massereene,  pardon  me.  There  is 
a  power  about  beauty  stronger  than  any  other, — a  charm 
that  draws  one  out  of  one's  self."  With  a  fat  obeisance  he 
says  this,  and  a  smile  he  means  to  be  fascinating. 

Molly  laughs.  In  her  place  Marcia  would  have  shown 
disgust  ;  but  Molly  only  laughs — a  delicious  laugh,  rich 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  193 

with  the  very  sweetest,  merriest  music.  She  admits  even 
to  herself  she  is  excessively  amused. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  says.  "  Positively  you  deserve  any« 
thing  for  so  pretty  a  speech.  I  am  sorry  I  have  nothing 
better  to  offer,  but — you  shall  have  my  rose." 

Still  smiling,  she  goes  close  to  him,  and  with  her  own 
white  fingers  places  the  rose  in  the  old  gentleman's  coat ; 
while  he  stands  as  infatuated  by  her  grace  and  beautv  as 
though  he  still  could  call  himself  twenty-four  with  a  clear 
conscience,  and  had  no  buxom  partner  at  home  ready  to 
devour  him  at  a  moment's  notice. 

Oh,  lucky,  sweetly-perfumed,  pale  white  rose  !  Oh,  for- 
tunate, kindly,  tender  manner  !  You  little  guess  your  in- 
fluence  over  the  future. 

Old  Mr.  Amherst,  who  has  been  watching  Molly  from 
afar,  now  comes  grumbling  toward  her  and  leads  Mr.  Bus- 
oarlet  away. 

"  Grandpa  is  in  a  bad  temper,"  says  Marcia,  generally, 
when  they  have  quite  gone. 

"  No,  you  don't  say  so  ?  What  a  remarkable  occur- 
rence !  "  exclaims  Cecil.  "  Now,  what  can  have  happened 
to  ruffle  so  serene  a  nature  as  his  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  notice  it ;  I  was  making  a  fresh  and  more 
lengthened  examination  of  his  features.  Yet,  I  still  ad- 
here to  my  original  conviction  :  his  nose  is  his  strong 
point."  Mr.  Potts  says  this  as  one  would  who  had  given  to 
the  subject  years  of  mature  study. 

"  It  is  thin,"  says  Lady  Stafford. 

"  It  is.  Considering  his  antiquity,  his  features  are  really 
•quite  handsome.  But  his  nose — his  nose,"  says  Mr.  Potts, 
"is  especially  fine.  That's  a  joke  :  do  you  see  it?  Fine ! 
Why,  it  is  sharper  than  an  awl.  '  Score  two  on  the  shovel 
for  that,  Mary  Ann/* 

For  want  of  something  better  to  do,  they  all  laugh  at 
Mr.  Potts's  rather  lame  sally.  Even  Mr.  Longshanks  so  far 
forgets  himself  and  his  allegiance  to  his  friend  as  to  say 
"  Ha-ha-ha  ! "  out  loud — a  proceeding  so  totally  unexpected 
on  the  part  of  Longshanks  that  they  all  laugh  again,  this 
time  the  more  heartily  that  they  cannot  well  explain  the 
cause  of  their  merriment. 

Captain  Mottie  is  justly  vexed.  The  friend  of  his  soul 
has  turned  traitor,  and  actually  expended  a  valuable  laugh 
Upon  an  outsider. 

Mrs.  Darley,  seeing  his  vexation,  says,  quietly,  "I  do 


194  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

not  think  it  is  good  form,  or  even  kind,  to  speak  so  of  poor 
Mr.  Amherst  behind  his  back.  I  cannot  bear  to  hear  hina 
abused." 

"  It  is  only  his  nose,  dear,"  says  Cecil ;  "  and  even  you 
eannot  call  it  fat  without  belying  your  conscience." 

Mrs.  Darley  accepts  the  apology,  and  goes  back  k>  her 
mild  flirtation. 

"  How  silly  that  woman  is  ! "  Cecil  says,  somewhat  in- 
dignantly. She  and  Molly  and  one  or  two  of  the  men  are 
rather  apart.  "  To  hear  her  going  in  for  simple  sentiments 
is  quite  too  much  for  me.  When  one  looks  at  her,  one 

cannot  help "  She  pauses,  and  taps  her  foot  upon  the 

ground,  impatiently. 

"  She  is  rather  pretty,"  says  Lowry,  glancing  carelessly 
at  the  powdered  doll's  face,  with  its  wealth  of  dyed  hair. 

"  There  was  a  young  lady  named  Maud," 
says  Sir  Penthony,  addressing  his  toes, 

"  Who  had  recently  come  from  abroad, 
Her  bloom  and  her  curls, 
Which  astonished  the  girls, 
Were  both  an  ingenious  fraud. 

Ah  !  here  is  Tedcastle  coming  across  to  us." 

Tedcastle,  with  the  boy  Darley  mounted  high  on  his 
shoulder,  comes  leisurely  over  the  lawn  and  up  the  steps. 

"  There,  my  little  man,  now  you  may  run  to  your 
mother,"  he  says  to  the  child,  who  shows  a  morbid  dislike 
to  leave  his  side  (all  children  adore  Luttrell).  "  What ! 
not  tired  of  me  yet  ?  Well,  stay,  then." 

"  Tea,  Tedcastle  ?  " 

"No,  thank  you." 

"  Let  me  get  you  some  more,  Miss  Massereene,"  says 
Plantagenet.  "You  came  late,  and  have  been  neglected." 

"I  think  I  will  take  a  very  little  more.  But,"  says 
Molly,  who  is  in  a  tender  mood,  "you  have  been  going 
about  on  duty  all  the  evening.  I  will  ask  Mr.  Luttrell  to 
get  me  some  this  time,  if  he  will  be  so  kind."  She  accom- 
panies this  with  a  glance  that  sets  Luttrell's  fond  heart 
beating. 

"  Ah,  Molly,  why  did  you  not  come  with  Teddy  and  me 
this  day,  as  usual  ?*"  says'  little  Lucien  Darley,  patting  her 
hand.  "  It  was  so  nice.  Only  there  was  no  regular  sun 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  195 

this  evening,  like  yesterday.  It  was  hat,  "but  I  could  see 
no  dear  little  dancing  sunbeams  ;  and  I  asked  Teddy  why, 
and  he  said  there  could  be  no  sun  where  Molly  was  not. 
What  did  he  mean  by  that  ?  " 

"Ye«,  what  could  he  have  meant  by  that?"  askg  Sir 
Penthony,  in  a  perplexed  tone,  while  Molly  blushes  one  of 
her  rare,  sweet  blushes,  and  lowers  her  eyes.  "It  was  a 
wild  remark.  I  can  see  no  sense  in  it.  But  perhaps  he 
will  kindly  explain.  I  say,  Luttrell,  you  shouldn't  spend 
your  time  telling  this  child  fairy  tales  ;  you  will  make  him 
a  visionary.  He  says  you  declared  Miss  Massereene  had 
entire  control  over  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars,  and  that  they 
were  never  known  to  shine  except  where  she  was." 

"I  have  heard  of  the  'enfant  terrible,'"  says  Luttrell, 
laughing,  to  cover  some  confusion;  "I  rejoice  to  say  I 
have  at  last  met  with  one.  Lucien,  I  shall  tell  you  no 
more  fantastic  stories." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"  These  violet  delights  have  violet  ends, 
And  in  their  triumph  die,  like  fire  and  powder." 

— Romeo  and  Juliet. 

11  That  is  the  way  with  von  men  ;  you  don't  understand  us, — yo«i 
cannot." — CourtsMp  of  Miles  Standish. 

WHETHER  it  is  because  of  Marcia's  demeanor  toward 
Mr.  Buscarlet,  or  the  unusual  excellence  of  the  weather, 
no  one  can  tell,  but  to-night  Mr.  Amherst  is  in  one  of  his 
choicest  moods. 

Each  of  his  remarks  outdoes  the  last  in  brilliancy  of 
conception,  whilst  all  tend  in  one  direction,  and  show  a 
laudable  desire  to  touch  on  open  wounds.  Even  the  pres- 
ence of  his  chosen  intimate,  the  lawyer,  who  remains  to 
dinner  and  an  uncomfortable  evening  afterward,  has  not 
the  power  to  stop  him,  though  Mr.  Buscarlet  does  all  in 
his  knowledge  to  conciliate  him,  and  fags  on  wearily 
through  his  gossiping  conversations  with  an  ardor  and  such 
an  amount  of  staying  power  as  raises  admiration  even  in 
the  breast  of  Marcia. 

AH  in  vain.     The  little  black  dog  has  settled  down  on 


^96  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

the  old  gentleman's  shoulders  with  a  vengeance  and  a 
determination  to  see  it  out  with  the  guests  not  to'  be 
shaken. 

Poor  Mr.  Potts  is  the  victim  of  the  hour.  Though  why, 
because  he  is  enraged  with  Marcia,  Mr.  Amherst  should 
expend  his  violence  upon  the  wretched  Plantagenet  is  a 
matter  for  speculation.  He  leaves  no  stone  unturned  to 
bring  down  condemnation  on  the  head  of  this  poor  youth 
and  destroy  his  peace  of  mind  ;  but  fortunately,  Plantag- 
enet has  learned  the  happy  knack  of  "ducking"  men- 
tally and  so  letting  all  hostile  missiles  fly  harmless  over 
his  rosy  head. 

After  dinner  Mr.  Darley  good-naturedly  suggests  a 
game  of  besique  with  his  host,  but  is  snubbed,  to  the  great 
grief  of  those  assembled  in  the  drawing-room.  Thereupon 
JDarley,  with  an  air  of  relief,  takes  up  a  book  and  retires 
within  himself,  leaving  Mr.  Buscarlet  to  come  once  more  to 
the  front. 

"  You  have  heard,  of  course,  about  the  Wyburns  ? " 
he  says,  addressing  Mr.  Amherst.  "  They  are  very  much 
cut  up  about  that  second  boy.  He  has  turned  out  such  a 
failure  !  He  missed  his  examination  again  last  week/' 

"I  see  no  cause  for  wonder.  What  does  Wyburn  ex- 
pect ?  At  sixty-five  he  weds  a  silly  chit  of  nineteen  with- 
out an  earthly  idea  in  her  head,  and  then  dreams  of  giving 
a  genius  to  the  world  !  When,"  says  Mr.  Amherst,  turn- 
ing his  gaze  freely  upon  the  devoted  Potts,  "  men  marry 
late  in  life  they  always  beget  fools/' 

"That's  me,"  says  Mr.  Potts,  addressing  Molly  in  an 
undertone,  utterly  unabashed.  "My  father  married  at 
sixty  and  my  mother  at  twenty-five.  In  me  you  behold 
the  fatal  result." 

"  Well,  well,"  goes  on  Mr.  Buscarlet,  hastily,  with  a  view 
to  checking  the  storm,  "  I  think  in  this  case  it  was  more 
idleness  than  want  of  brain." 

"  My  dear  Buscarlet,  did  you  ever  yet  hear  of  a  dunce 
whose  mother  did  not  go  about  impressing  upon  people 
how  idle  the  dear  boy  was  ?  Idle  ?  Pooh  !  lack  of  in- 
tellect ! " 

"At  all  events,  the  Wyburns  are  to  be  pitied.  The 
eldest  son's  marriage  with  one  so  much  beneath  him  was 
also  a  sad  blow." 

:'  Was  it  ?  Others  endure  like  blows  and  make  no  com- 
plaint. It  is  quite  th«  common  and  regular  thing  for  the 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  1ft? 

enild  you  have  nurtured,  to  grow  up  and  embitter  your 
life  in  every  possible  way  by  marrying  against  your  wishes, 
or  otherwise  bringing  down  disgrace  upon  your  head.  I 
have  been  especially  blessed  in  my  children  and  grand- 
children. " 

"Just  so,  no  doubt, — no  doubt,"  says  Mr.  Buscarlet, 
nervously.  There  is  a  meaning  sneer  about  the  old  man's 
lips. 

"Specially  blessed/'  he  repeats.  "I  had  reason  to  be 
proud  of  them.  Each  child  as  he  or  she  married  gave 
me  fresh  cause  for  joy.  Marcia's  mother  was  an  Italian 
dancer." 

"She  was  an  actress,"  Marcia  interposes,  calmly,  not 
a  line  of  displeasure,  not  the  faintest  trace  of  anger,  discern- 
ible in  her  pale  face.  "I  do  not  recollect  having  ever 
heard  she  danced." 

"Probably  she  suppressed  that  fact.  It  hardly  adds  to 
one's  respectability.  Philip's  father  was  a  spendthrift. 
His  son  develops  day  by  day  a  very  dutiful  desire  to  follow 
in  his  footsteps." 

"Perhaps  I  might  do  worse,"  Shadwell  replies,  with  a 
little  aggravating  laugh.  "  At  all  events,  he  was  beloved." 

"So  he  was, — while  his  money  lasted.  Eleanor's 
father " 

With  a  sudden,  irrepressible  start  Molly  rises  to  her 
feet  and,  with  a  rather  white  face,  turns  to  her  grand- 
father. 

"I  will  thank  you,  grandpapa,  to  say  nothing  against 
my  father,"  she  says,  in  tones  so  low,  yet  so  full  of  dignity 
and  indignation,  that  the  old  man  actually  pauses. 

"High  tragedy,"  says  he,  with  a  sneer.  "Why,  you 
are  all  wrongly  assorted.  The  actress  should  have  been 
your  mother,  Eleanor." 

Yet  it  is  noticeable  that  he  makes  no  further  attempt  to 
slight  the  memory  of  the  dead  Massereene. 

"  I  shan't  be  able  to  stand  much  more  of  this,"  says  Mr. 
Potts,  presently,  coming  behind  the  lounge  on  which  sit 
Lady  Stafford  and  Molly.  "  I  shall  infallibly  blow  out  at 
that  obnoxious  old  person,  or  else  do  something  equally 
reprehensible." 

"He  is  a  perfect  bear,"  says  Cecil  angrily. 

"  He  is  a  wicked  old  man,"  says  Molly,  still  trembling 
with  indignation. 

"  He  is  a  jolly  old  snook,"  says  Mr.  Potts.     But  as 


108  MOLLY 

neither  of  his  listeners  know  what  he  means,  they  do  not 
respond. 

"  Let  us  do  something/*  says  Plantagenet,  briskly. 

"  But  what  ?  Will  you  sing  for  us,  Molly  ?  '  Music  hath 
charms  to  soothe  the  savage  breast. ' ''' 

"  It  would  take  a  good  deal  of  music  to  soothe  our  bete 
noire,"  says  Potts.  "  Besides — I  confess  it, — music  is  not 
what  Artemus  Ward  would  call  my  '  forte/  I  don't 
understand  it.  I  am  like  the  man  who  said  he  only  knew 
two  tunes  in  the  world  :  one  was  '  God  save  the  Queen/ 
and  the  other  wasn't.  No,  let  us  do  something  active, — 
something  unusual,  something  wicked." 

"  If  you  can  suggest  anything  likely  to  answer  to  your 
description,  you  will  make  me  your  friend  for  life,"  says 
Cecil,  with  solemnity.  "I  feel  bad." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  a  devil  ? "  asks  Mr.  Potts,  in  a 
sepulchral  tone. 

"  A  what?"  exclaim  Cecil  and  Molly,  in  a  breath. 

"A  devil/'  repeats  he,  unmoved.  "I  don't  mean  our 
own  particular  old  gentleman,  who  has  been  behaving  so 
sweetly  to-night,  but  a  regular  bonafide  one." 

"  Are  you  a  spiritualist  ?  "  Cecil  asks  with  awe. 

"  Nothing  half  so  paltry.  There  is  no  deception  about 
my  performance.  It  is  simplicity  itself.  There  is  no  rap- 
ping, but  a  great  deal  of  powder.  Have  you  ever  seen 
one  ?  " 

"  A  devil  ?     Never." 

"Should  you  like  to? 

"  Shouldn't  I  ! "  says  Cecil,  with  enthusiasm. 

"Then  you  shall.  It  won't  be  much,  you  know,  but  it 
has  a  pretty  effect,  and  anything  will  be  less  deadly  than 
sitting  here  listening  to  the  honeyed  speeches  of  our  host. 
I  will  go  and  prepare  my  work,  and  call  you  when  it  is 
ready." 

In  twenty  minutes  he  returns  and  beckons  them  to 
come  ;  and,  rising,  both  girls  quit  the  drawing-room. 

With  mr-ch  glee  Mr.  Potts  conducts  them  across  the 
hall  into  the  library,  where  they  find  all  the  chairs  and 
the  centre  table  pushed  into  a  corner,  as  though  to  make 
room  for  one  soup-plate  which  occupies  the  middle  of  the 
floor. 

On  this  plate  stands  a  miniature  hill,  broad  at  the  base 
and  tapering  at  the  summit,  composed  of  blended  powder 
and  water,  which  Mr.  Potts  has  been  carefully  heating  in 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  1S9 

an  oven  during  his  absence  until,  according  to  his  lights,  it 
has  reached  a  proper  dryness. 

"  Good  gracious  !  what  is  it  ?  "  asks  Molly. 

"  Powder,"  says  Potts. 

"  I  hope  it  won't  go  off  and  blow  us  all  to  bite,"  says 
Cecil,  anxiously. 

"  It  will  go  off,  certainly,  but  it  won't  do  any  damage," 
replies  their  showman,  with  confidence ;  "  and  really  it 
is  very  pretty  while  burning.  I  used  to  make  'em  by 
hundreds  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  nothing  ever  hap- 
pened except  once,  when  I  blew  the  ear  off  my  father's 
coachman. 

This  is  not  reassuring.  Molly  gets  a  little  closer  to 
Cecil,  and  Cecil  gets  a  little  nearer  to  Molly.  They  both 
sensibly  increase  the  distance  between  them  and  the 
"devil." 

"  Now  I  am  going  to  put  out  the  lamp,"  says  Plan- 
tagenet,  suiting  the  action  to  the  word  and  suddenly  placing 
them  in  darkness.  "  It  don't  look  anything  if  there  is  light 
to  overpower  its  own  brilliancy." 

Striking  a  match,  he  applies  it  to  the  little  black  moun- 
tain, and  in  a  second  it  turns  into  a  burning  one.  The 
aparks  fly  rapidly  upward.  It  seems  to  be  pouring  its  fire 
in  little  liquid  streams  all  down  its  sides. 

Cecil  and  Molly  are  in  raptures. 

"  It  is  Vesuvius,"  says  the  former. 

"  It  is  Mount  Etna,"  says  the  latter,  "  except  much  bet- 
ter, because  they  don't  seem  to  have  any  volcanoes  nowa- 
days. Mr.  Potts,  you  deserve  a  prize  medal  for  giving  us 
such  a  treat." 

"  Plantagenet,  my  dear,  I  didn't  believe  it  was  in  you," 
says  Cecil.  "  Permit  me  to  compliment  you  on  your  unpre- 
cedented success." 

Presently,  however,  they  slightly  alter  their  sentiments. 
Every  school-boy  knows  how  overpowering  is  the  smell  of 
burnt  powder. 

"  What  an  intolerable  smell  ! "  says  Molly,  when  the 
little  mound  is  half  burned  down,  putting  her  dainty 
handkerchief  up  to  her  nose.  "Oh!  what  is  it?  Gun- 
powder? Brimstone?  Sulphur ?" 

"  And  extremely  appropriate,  too,  dear,"  gays  Cecil,  who 
has  also  got  her  nose  buried  in  her  cambric  ;  "  entirely 
carries  out  the  character  of  the  entertainment.  You  eurelv 
don't  expect  to  be  regaled  with  incense  or  attar  of  roses. 


200  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

By  the  bye,  Plantagenet,  is  there  going  to  be  muah  xaor« 
of  it, — the  smell,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Not  much,"  replies  he.  "  And,  after  all,  what  is  it  ? 
If  you  went  out  shooting  every  day  you  would  think 
nothing  of  it.  For  my  part  I  almost  like  the  smell.  It  is 
wholesome,  and — er Oh,  by  Jove  ! " 

There  is  a  loud  report, — a  crash, — two  terrified  screams, 
— and  then  utter  darkness.  The  base  of  the  hill,  being  too 
dry,  has  treacherously  gone  off  without  warning :  hence 
the  explosion. 

"  You  aren't  hurt,  are  you?"  asks  Mr.  Potts,  a  minutfc 
later,  in  a  terrified  whisper,  being  unable  to  see  whether 
his  companions  are  dead  or  alive. 

"  Not  much,"  replies  Cecil,  in  a  trembling  tone  ;  "  but, 
oh  !  what  has  happened?  Molly,  speak/' 

"I  am  quite  safe,"  says  Molly,  "but  horribly  frightened. 
Mr.  Potts,  are  you  all  right  ? " 

"I  am."  He  is  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  one  of  his 
cheeks  is  black  as  any  nigger's,  and  that  both  his  hands 
resemble  it.  "I  really  thought  it  was  all  up  when  I  heard 
you  scream.  It  was  that  wretched  powder  that  got  too  dry 
at  the  end.  However,  it  doesn't  matter." 

"  Have  you  both  your  ears,  Molly  ?  "  asks  Cecil,  with  a 
laugh ;  but  a  sudden  commotion  in  the  hall  outside,  and 
the  rapid  advance  of  footsteps  in  their  direction,  check  her 
merriment. 

"  I  hear  Mr.  Amherst's  voice,"  says  Mr.  Potts,  tragically. 
"  If  he  finds  us  here  we  are  ruined. 

"  Let  us  get  behind  the  curtains  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room,"  whispers  Cecil,  hurriedly ;  "  they  may  not  find  us 
there, — and — throw  the  plate  out  of  the  window." 

No  sooner  said  than  done  :  Plantagenet  with  a  quick 
movement  precipitates  the  soup-plate — or  rather  what 
remains  of  it — into  the  court-yard  beneath,  where  it  falls 
with  a  horrible  clatter,  and  hastily  follows  his  two  com- 
panions into  their  unc«rtain  hiding-place. 

It  stands  in  a  remote  corner,  rather  hidden  by  a  book- 
case, and  consists  of  a  broad  wooden  pedestal,  hung  round 
with  curtains,  that  once  supported  a  choice  statue.  The 
statue  having  been  promoted  some  time  since,  the  three 
conspirators  now  take  its  place,  and  find  themselves  com- 
pletely concealed  by  its  falling  draperies. 

This  recess,  having  been  orisrinallv  intended  for  one, 
can  with  difficulty  conceal  two,  so  I  leave  it  to  your  iin- 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  201 

^•nation  to  consider  how  badly  three  fare  for  room  in- 
side  it. 

Mr.  Potts,  finding  himself  in  the  middle,  begins  to  wish 
he  had  been  born  without  arms,  as  he  now  knows  not  how 
to  dispose  of  them.  He  stirs  the  right  one,  and  Cecil  in- 
stantly declares  in  an  agonized  whisper  that  she  is  falling 
off  the  pedestal.  He  moves  the  left,  and  Molly  murmurs 
frantically  in  another  instant  she  will  be  through  the  cur- 
tains at  her  side.  Driven  to  distraction,  poor  Potts,  with 
many  apologies,  solves  the  difficulty  by  placing  an  arm 
round  each  complainant,  and  so  supports  them  on  their 
treacherous  footing. 

They  have  scarcely  brought  themselves  into  a  retainable 
position  when  the  door  opens  and  Mr.  Amherst  enters  the 
room,  followed  by  Sir  Penthony  Stafford  and  Luttrell. 

With  one  candlestick  only  are  they  armed,  which  Sir 
Penthony  holds,  having  naturally  expected  to  find  the 
library  lighted. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this  smell?"  exclaims  Mr. 
Amherst,  in  an  awful  voice,  that  makes  our  three  friends 
Oliver  in  their  shoes.  "  Has  any  one  been  trying  to  blow 
up  the  house  ?  I  insist  on  learning  the  meaning  of  this 
disgraceful  affair/' 

"  There  doesn't  seem  to  be  anything,"  says  Tedcastle, 
"  except  gunpowder,  or  rather  the  unpleasant  remains  of 
it.  The  burglar  has  evidently  flown." 

"If  you  intend  turning  the  matter  into  a  joke,"  retorts 
Mr.  Amherst,  "  you  had  better  leave  the  room." 

"  Nothing  shall  induce  me  to  quit  the  post  of  danger," 
replies  Luttrell,  unruffled. 

Meantime,  Sir  Penthony,  who  is  of  a  more  suspicious 
nature,  is  making  a  more  elaborate  search.  Slowly, 
methodically  he  commences  a  tour  round  the  room,  until 
presently  he  comes  to  a  stand-still  before  the  curtains  that 
conceal  the  trembling  trio. 

Mr.  Amherst,  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  is  busily  en- 
gaged examining  the  chips  of  china  that  remain  after  their 
fiasco, — and  that  ought  to  tell  the  tale  of  a  soup-plate. 

Tedcastle  comes  to  Sir  Penthony's  side. 

Together  they  withdraw  the  curtains  ;  together  they  view 
what  rests  behind  them. 

Grand  tableau  ! 

Mr.  Potts,  with  half  his  face  blackened  beyond  recogni- 
tion, glares  out  at  them  with  the  courage  of  despair.  On 


cny  side  of  him  is  Lady  Stafford,  on  the  other  Miss  Masse- 
reene ;  from  behind  each  of  their  waists  protrudes  a  huge 
dnd  sooty  hand.  That  hand  belongs  to  Potts. 

Three  pairs  of  eyes  gleam  at  the  discoverers,  silently,, 
entreatingly,  yet  with  what  different  expressions  !  Molly 
is  frightened,  but  evidently  braced  for  action  ;  Mr.  Potts  is 
defiant;  Lady  Stafford  is  absolutely  convulsed  with  laughter. 
Already  filled  with  a  keen  sense  of  the  comicality  of  the 
situation,  it  only  wanted  her  husband's  face  of  indignant 
surprise  to  utterly  unsettle  her.  Therefore  it  is  that  the 
one  embarrassment  she  suffers  from  is  a  difficulty  in  refrain- 
ing from  an  outburst  of  merriment. 

There  is  a  dead  silence.  Only  the  grating  of  Mr.  Am- 
herst's  bits  of  china  mars  the  stillness.  Plantagenet,  star- 
ing at  his  judges,  defies  them,  without  a  word,  to  betray 
their  retreat.  The  judges — although  angry — stare  back  at 
him,  and  acknowledge  their  inability  to  play  the  sneak. 
Sir  Penthony  drops  the  curtain, — and  the  candle.  Instantly 
darkness  covers  them.  Luttrell  scrapes  a  heavy  chair  along 
the  waxed  borders  of  the  floor ;  there  is  some  faint  con- 
fusion, a  rustle  of  petticoats,  a  few  more  footsteps  than 
ought  to  be  in  the  room,  an  uncivil  remark  from  old  Am- 
herst  about  some  people's  fingers  being  all  thumbs,  and 
then  once  more  silence. 

When,  after  a  pause,  Sir  Penthony  relights  his  candle, 
the  search  is  at  an  end. 

Now  that  they  are  well  out  of  the  library,  though  still  in 
the  gloomy  little  anteroom  that  leads  to  it,  Molly  and  Cecil 
pause  to  recover  breath.  For  a  few  moments  they  keep  an 
unbroken  quiet.  Lady  Stafford  is  the  first  to  speak, —as 
might  be  expected. 

"I  am  bitterly  disappointed/*  she  says,  in  a  tone  of  in- 
tense disgust.  "It  is  a  downright  swindle.  In  spite  of  a 
belief  that  has  lasted  for  years,  that  nose  of  his  is  a  failure. 
I  think  nothing  of  it.  With  all  its  length  and  all  its  sharp- 
ness, it  never  found  us  out  ! " 

"  Let  us  be  thankful  for  that  same/'  returns  Molly,  de- 
voutly. 

By  this  time  they  have  reached  the  outer  hall,  where 
the  lamps  are  shining  vigorously.  They  now  shine  down 
with  unkind  brilliancy  on  Mr.  Potts's  disfigured  counte- 
nance. A  heavy  veil  of  black  spreads  from  his  nose  to  his 
left  ear,  rather  spoiling  the  effect  of  his  unique  uglisiess. 

It  is  impossible  to  resist ;  Laclv  Stafford  instantly  breaks 


MOLL  ?  BA  WN.  203 

down,  and  gives  way  to  the  laughter  that  ha*  been  oppress- 
ing her  for  trie  last  half-hour,  Molly  chimes  in,  and  together 
they  laugh  with  such  hearty  delight  that  Mr.  Potts  bumf 
to  know  the  cause  of  their  mirth,  that  he  may  join  in. 

He  grins,  however,  in  sympathy,  whilst  waiting  impa- 
tiently an  explanation.  His  utter  ignorance  of  the  real 
reason  only  enhances  the  absurdity  of  his  appearance  and 
prolongs  the  delight  of  his  companions. 

When  two  minutes  have  elapsed,  and  still  neither  of 
them  offers  any  information,  he  grows  grave,  and  whispers 
rather  to  himself  than  them,  the  one  word,  "  Hysterics  ?" 

"  You  are  right/'  cries  Cecil :  "  I  was  never  nearer  hys- 
terics in  my  life.  Oh,  Plantagenet !  your  face  is  as  black 

t*S          dS  '     ' 

"  Your  hat ! "  supplies  Molly,  as  well  as  she  can  speak. 
"  And  your  hands, — you  look  demoniacal.  Do  run  away 
and  wash  yourself  and I  hear  somebody  coming/' 

Whereupon  Potts  scampers  up-stairs,  while  the  other 
two  gain  the  drawing-room,  just  as  Mr.  Amherst  appears 
in  the  hall. 

Seeing  them,  half  an  hour  later,  seated  in  all  quietude 
and  sobriety,  discussing  the  war  and  the  last  new  marvel 
in  bonnets,  who  would  have  supposed  them  guilty  of  their 
impromptu  game  of  "hide  and  seek"  ? 

Tedcastle  and  Sir  Penthony,  indeed,  look  much  more 
like  the  real  culprits,  being  justly  annoyed,  and  conse- 
quently rather  cloudy  about  the  brows.  Yet,  with  a  sense 
of  dignified  pride,  the  two  gentlemen  abstain  from  giving 
voice  to  their  disapprobation,  and  make  no  comment  on  the 
event  of  the  evening. 

Mr.  Potts  is  serenity  itself,  and  is  apparently  ignorant  of 
having  given  offense  to  any  one.  His  face  has  regained  its 
pristine  fairness,  and  is  scrupulously  clean ;  so  is  his  con- 
science. He  looks  incapable  of  harm. 

Bed-hour  arrives,  and  Tedcastle  retires  to  his  pipe  with- 
out betraying  his  inmost  feelings.  Sir  Penthony  is  deter- 
mined to  follow  his  lead ;  Cecil  is  equally  determined  he 
shall  not.  To  have  it  out  with  him  without  further  loss  of 
time  is  her  fixed  intention,  and  with  that  design  she  says,  a 
little  imperiously : 

"Sir  Penthony,  get  me  my  candle/' 

She  has  lingered,  before  saying  this,  until  almost  all  the 
others  have  disappeared.  The  last  of  the  men  is  vanishing 
round  the  corner  that  leads  to  the  smoking-room  :  the  last 


304  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

of  the  women  has  gone  beyond  sight  of  the  staircase  in  search 
of  her  bedroom  fire.  Cecil  and  her  husband  stand  alone  in 
the  vast  hall. 

"  I  fear  you  are  annoyed  about  something,"  she  says,  in 
a  maddening  tone  of  commiseration,  regarding  him  keenly, 
while  he  gravely  lights  her  candle. 

"  Why  should  you  suppose  so  ?  " 

"  Because  of  your  gravity  and  unusual  silence/' 

"  I  was  never  a  great  talker,  and  I  do  not  think  I  am 
in  the  habit  of  laughing  more  than  other  people." 

"  But  you  have  not  laughed  at  all, — all  this  evening,  at 
least/' — with  a  smile, — "  not  since  you  discovered  us  in 
durance  vile." 

"  Did  you  find  the  situation  so  unpleasant  ?  I  fancied  it 
rather  amused  you, — so  much  so  that  you  even  appeared 
to  forget  the  dignity  that,  as  a  married  woman,  ought  to- 
belong  to  you." 

"  Well,  but !  " — provokingly — "  you  forget  how  very  lit- 
tle married  I  am." 

"At  all  events  you  are  my  wife," — rather  angrily ;  "I 
must  beg  you  to  remember  that.  And  for  the  future  I  shall 
ask  you  to  refrain  from  such  amusements  as  call  for  con- 
cealment and  necessitate  the  support  of  a  young  man's 
arm." 

"  I  really  do  not  see  by  what  right  you  interfere  with 
either  me  or  my  amusements,"  says  Cecil,  hotly,  after  a  de- 
cided pause.  Never  has  he  addressed  her  with  so  much 
sternness.  She  raises  her  eyes  to  his  and  colors  richly  all 
through  her  creamy  skin,  "  Recollect  our  bargain." 

"I  do.     I  recollect  also  that  you  have  my  name." 

'"  And  you  have  my  money.  *  That  makes  us  quits." 

"  I  do  not  see  how  you  intend  carrying  out  that  argu- 
ment. The  money  was  quite  as  much  mine  as  yours." 

"  But  you  could  not  have  had  it  without  me." 

"Nor  you  without  me." 

"Which  is  to  be  regretted.  At  least  I  should  have  had 
a  clear  half,  which  I  haven't ;  so  you  have  the  best  of  it. 
And — I  will  not  be  followed  about,  and  pried  after,  and 
made  generally  uncomfortable  by  any  one. 

"  Who  is  prying  after  you  ?  " " 

"You  are/' 
'What  do  you  mean,  Cecil  ?  "     Haughtily. 

"Just  what  I  say.  And,  as  I  never  so  far  forget  myself 
as  to  call  you  by  your  Christian  name  without  its  prefix,  I 


MOLLY  BAWN.  205 

think  you  might  have  the  courtesy  to  address  me  as  Lady 
Stafford." 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish  it." 

"  I  do.     Have  you  anything  more  to  say  ?  " 

"  Yes,  more  than " 

"  Then  pray  defer  it  until  to-morrow,  as  " — with  a  bare- 
faced attempt  at  a  yawn — "  I  really  cannot  sit  up  any 
longer.  Good-night,  Sir  Penthoiiy." 

Sir  Penthony  puts  the  end  of  his  long  moustache  into 
his  mouth, — a  sure  sign  of  irritation, — and  declines  to 
answer. 

"  Good-night,"  repeats  her  ladyship,  blandly,  going  up 
the  staircase,  with  a  suspicion  of  a  smile  at  the  corners  of 
her  lips,  and  feeling  no  surprise  that  her  polite  little  adieu 
receives  no  reply. 

When  she  has  reached  the  centre  of  the  broad  staircase 
she  pauses,  and,  leaning  her  white  arms  upon  the  banisters, 
looks  down  upon  her  husband,  standing  irresolute  and  angry 
in  the  hall  beneath. 

"Sir  Penthony,"  murmurs  she;  "Sir "  Here  she 

hesitates  for  so  long  a  time  that  when  at  last  the  "  Pen- 
thony "  does  come  it  sounds  more  familiar  and  almost  un- 
connected with  the  preceding  word. 

Stafford  turns,  and  glances  quickly  up  at  her.  She  is 
dressed  in  some  soft-flowing  gown  of  black,  caught  here 
and  there  with  heavy  bows  and  bands  of  cream-color,  that 
contrast  admirably  with  her  hair,  soft  skin,  her  laughing 
eyes,  and  her  pouting,  rosy  lips.  In  her  hair,  which  she 
wears  low  on  her  neck,  is  a  black  comb  studded  with 
pearls  ;  there  are  a  few  pearls  round  her  neck,  a  few  more 
in  her  small  ears  ;  she  wears  no  bracelets,  only  two  narrow 
bands  of  black  velvet  caught  with  pearls,  that  make  her 
arms  seem  even  rounder  and  whiter  than  they  are. 

"  Good-night/'  she  says,  for  the  third  time,  nodding  at 
him  in  a  slow,  sweet  fashion  that  has  some  grace  or  charm 
about  it  all  its  own,  and  makes  her  at  the  instant  ten  times 
lovelier  than  she  was  before. 

Stafford,  coming  forward  until  he  stands  right  under 
her,  gazes  up  at  her  entranced  like  some  modern  Romeo. 
Indeed,  there  is  something  almost  theatrical  about  them  as 
they  linger,  each  waiting  for  the  other  to  speak, — he  fond 
and  impassioned,  yet  half  angry  too,  she  calm  and  smiling, 
yet  mutinous. 

For  a  fall  minute  they  thus  hesitate,  looking  into  eaoh 


206  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

other's  eyes  ;  then  the  anger  fades  from  Stafford's  face,  and 
he  whispers,  eagerly,  tenderly  : 

"  Good-night,  my " 

"  Friend,"  murmurs  back  her  ladyship,  decisively,  lean- 
ing jet  a  little  farther  over  the  banisters. 

Then  she  kisses  her  hand  to  him  and  drops  at  his  feet 
the  rose  that  has  lain  on  her  bosom  all  the  evening,  and, 
with  a  last  backward  glance  and  smile,  flits  away  from  him 
up  the  darkened  staircase  and  vanishes. 

"  I  shall  positively  lose  my  heart  to  her  if  I  don't  take 
care/'  thinks  the  young  man,  ruefully,  and  very  foolishly, 
-considering  how  long  ago  it  is  since  that  misfortune  has 
befallen  him.  But  we  are  ever  slow  to  acknowledge  our 
own  defeats.  His  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the  flower  at  his 
feet. 

"  No,  I  do  not  want  her  flowers,"  he  says,  with  a  slight 
frown,  pushing  it  away  from  him  disdainfully.  "  It  was  a 
mere  chance  my  getting  it.  Any  other  fellow  in  my  place 
at  the  moment  would  have  been  quite  as  favored, — nay, 
beyond  doubt  more  so.  I  will  not  stoop  for  it." 

With  his  dignity  thus  forced  to  the  front,  he  walks  the 
entire  length  of  the  hall,  his  arms  folded  determinedly  be- 
hind him,  until  he  reaches  a  door  at  the  upper  end. 

Here  he  pauses  and  glances  back  almost  guiltily.  Yes, 
it  is  still  there,  the  poor,  pretty  yellow  blossom  that  has 
been  so  close  to  her,  now  sending  forth  its  neglected  per- 
fume to  an  ungrateful  world. 

It  is  cruel  to  leave  it  there  alone  all  night,  to  be  trodden 
on,  perhaps,  in  the  morning  by  an  unappreciative  John  or 
Thomas,  or,  worse  still,  to  be  worn  by  an  appreciative 
James.  Desecration ! 

'"Who  hesitates  is  lost,'"  quotes  Stafford,  aloud,  with 
an  angry  laugh  at  his  own  folly,  and,  walking  deliberately 
back  again,  picks  up  the  flower  and  presses  it  to  his  lips. 

"  I  thought  that  little  speech  applied  only  to  us  poor 
women,"  says  a  soft  voice  above  him,  as,  to  his  everlasting 
chagrin,  Cecil's  mischievous,  lovable  face  peers  down  at 
him  from  the  gallery  overhead.  "Have  another  flower, 
Sir  Penthony  ?  You  seem  fond  of  them." 

She  throws  a  twin-blossom  to  the  one  he  holds  on  to  his 
shoulder  as  she  speaks  with  very  accurate  aim. 

"It  was  yours,"  stammers  Sir  Penthony,  utterly  taken 
«back. 
(     *'  So  it  was," — with  an  accent   of  affected  surprise, — 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  20? 

"  which  makes  your  behavior  all  the  more  astonishing. 
Well,  do  not  stand  there  kissing  it  all  night,  or  you  wul 
Datch  eold,  and  then — what  should  I  do  ?  " 

"What?" 

"Die  of  grief,  most  probably."  With  a  little  mocking 
laugh. 

"  Very  probably.  Yet  you  should  pity  me  too,  in  that 
I  have  fallen  so  low  as  to  have  nothing  better  given  me  to 
kiss.  I  am  wasting  my  sweetness  on " 

"Is  it  sweetness?"  asks  she,  wickedly. 

At  this  they  both  laugh, — a  low,  a  soft  laugh,  born  of 
the  hour  and  a  fear  of  interruption,  and  perhaps  a  dread  of 
being  so  discovered,  that  adds  a  certain  zest  to  their  meet- 
ing. Then  he  says,  still  laughing,  in  answer  to  her  words, 
"Try." 

"  No,  thank  you."  With  a  little  moue.  "Curiosity  is 
not  my  besetting  sin,  although  I  could  not  resist  seeing 
how  you  would  treat  my  parting  gift  a  moment  ago.  Ah ! " 
— with  a  little  suppressed  laugh  of  the  very  fullest  enjoy- 
ment,— "you  cannot  think  what  an  interesting  picture 
you  made, — almost  tragic.  First  you  stalked  away  from 
my  unoffending  rose  with  all  the  dignity  of  a  thousand 
Spaniards ;  and  then,  when  you  had  gone  sufficiently  far 
to  make  your  return  effective,  you  relented,  and,  seizing 
upon  the  flower  as  though  it  were — let  us  say,  for  conven- 
ience sake — myself,  devoured  it  with  kisses.  I  assure  you 
it  was  better  than  a  play.  Well," — with  a  sigh, — "I  won't 
detain  you  any  longer.  I'm  off  to  my  slumbers." 

"Don't  go  yet,  Cecil.  Wait  one  moment.  I — have 
something  to  say  to  you." 

"  No  doubt.  A  short  time  since  you  said  the  same 
thing.  AVere  I  to  stay  now  you  might,  perhaps,  finish 
that  scolding ;  instinct  told  me  it  was  hanging  over  me ; 
and — I  hate  being  taken  to  task." 

"  I  will  not,  I  swear  I  will  never  again  attempt  to  scold 
you  about  anything,  experience  having  taught  me  the  futil- 
ity of  such  a  course.  Cecil,  stay." 

"Lady  Stafford,  if  you  please,  Sir  Penthony."  With  a 
tormenting  smile. 

"Lady  Stafford  then, — anything,  if  you  will  only  stay." 

"  I  can't,  then.  Where  should  I  be  without  my  beauty 
sleep  ?  The  bare  idea  fills  me  with  horror.  Why,  I  should 
lose  my  empire.  Sweet  as  parting  is,  I  protest  I,  for  one, 
would  not  lengthen  it  until  to-morrow.  Till  then — fare- 


208  MOLLY  BAWN. 

well.  And— Sir  Penthony — be  sure  you  dream  of  me.  I 
liked  being  dreamed  of  by  my " 

"  By  whom  ?  '* 

"  My  slaves,"  returns  this  coquette  of  all  coquettes,  with 
a  last  lingering  glance  and  smile.  After  which  she  finally 
disappears. 

"There  is  no  use  disguising  the  fact  any  longer, — I  have 
lost  my  heart,"  groans  Sir  Penthony,  in  despair,  as  ho 
straightway  carries  off  both  himself  and  his  cherished 
flowers  to  the  shelter  of  his  own  room. 


CHAPTEE  XIX. 

"  I'll  tell  thee  a  part, 
Of  the  thoughts  that  start 
To  being  when  them  art  nigh." 

—SHELLEY. 

THE  next  day  is  Sunday,  and  a  very  muggy,  disagree- 
able one  it  proves.  There  is  an  indecision  about  it  truly 
irritating.  A  few  drops  of  rain  here  and  there,  a  threaten- 
ing of  storm,  but  nothing  positive.  Finally,  at  eleven 
o'clock,  just  as  they  have  given  up  all  hope  of  seeing  any 
improvement,  it  clears  up  in  a  degree, — against  its  will, — 
and  allows  two  or  three  depressed  and  tearful  sunbeams  to 
struggle  forth,  rather  with  a  view  to  dishearten  the  world 
than  to  brighten  it. 

Sunday  at  Herst  is  much  the  same  as  any  other  day. 
There  are  no  rules,  no  restrictions.  In  the  library  may  be 
found  volumes  of  sermons  waiting  for  those  who  may  wish 
for  them.  The  covers  of  those  sermons  are  as  clean  and 
fresh  to-day  as  when  they  were  placed  on  their  shelves,  now 
many  years  ago,  showing  how  amiably  they  have  waited. 
You  may  play  billiards  if  you  like  ;  you  need  not  go  to 
church  if  you  don't  like,  Yet,  somehow,  when  at  Herst, 
people  always  do  go, — perhaps  because  they  needn't,  or 
perhaps  because  there  is  such  a  dearth  of  amusements. 

Molly,  who  as  yet  has  escaped  all  explanation  with  Ted- 
castle,  coming  down-stairs,  dressed  for  church,  and  looking 
unusually  lovely,  finds  almost  all  the  others  assembled 
before  her  in  the  hall,  ready  to  start. 

Laying  her  prayer-books  upon  a  table,  while  with  one 


MOLLY  BAWN.  309 

hand  she  gathers  up  the  tail  of  her  long  gown,  she  turns  to 
sa,y  a  word  or  two  to  Lady  Stafford. 

At  this  moment  both  Luttrell  and  Shad  well  move  to- 
ward the  books.  Shadwell,  reaching  them  first,  lays  his 
hand  upon  them. 

"  You  will  carry  them  for  me  ? "  says  Molly,  with  a 
bright  smile  to  him  ;  and  Luttrell,  with  a  slight  contraction 
of  the  brow,  falls  back  again,  and  takes  his  place  beside 
Lady  Stafford. 

As  the  church  lies  at  the  end  of  a  pleasant  pathway 
through  the  woods,  they  elect  to  walk  it ;  and  so  in  twos 
and  threes  they  make  their  way  under  the  still  beautiful 
trees. 

"  It  is  cold,  is  it  not  ?  "  Molly  says  to  Mrs.  Darley  once, 
when  they  come  to  an  open  part  of  the  wood,  where  they 
can  travel  in  a  body  ;  "  wonderfully  so  for  September. " 

"  Is  it  ?  I  never  mind  the  cold,  or — or  anything/'  re- 
joins Mrs.  Darley,  affectedly,  talking  for  the  benefit  of  the 
devoted  Mottie,  who  walks  beside  her,  "  laden  with  golden 
grain,"  in  the  shape  of  prayer-books  and  hymnals  of  all 
sorts  and  sizes,  "  if  I  have  any  one  with  me  that  suits  me  ; 
that  is,  a  sympathetic  person." 

"  A  lover  you  mean  ? "  asks  uncompromising  Molly. 
"  Well,  I  don't  know  ;  I  think  that  is  about  the  time,  of  all 
others,  when  I  should  object  to  feeling  cold.  One's  nose 
has  such  an  unpleasant  habit  of  getting  beyond  one's  con- 
trol in  the  way  of  redness  ;  and  to  feel  that  one's  cheeks 
are  pinched  and  one's  lips  blue  is  maddening.  At  such 
times  I  like  my  own  society  best." 

"And  at  other  times,  too,"  said  Philip,  disagreeably; 
'•'this  morning,  for  instance."  He  and  Molly  have  been 
having  a  passage  of  arms,  and  he  has  come  off  second  best. 

"I  won't  contradict  you,"  says  Molly,  calmly;  "it 
would  be  rude,  and,  considering  how  near  we  are  to  church, 
unchristian. " 

"  A  pity  you  cannot  recollect  your  Christianity  on  other 
occasions,"  says  he,  sneeringly. 

"  You  speak  with  feeling.  How  have  I  failed  toward 
you  in  Christian  charity  ?" 

"  Is  it  charitable,  is  it  kind  to  scorn  a  fellow-creature  as 
you  do,  only  because  he  loves  you  ?  "  Philip  says,  in  a  low 
tone. 

Miss  Massereene  is  first  honestly  surprised,  then  angry. 
That  Philip  has  made  love  to  her  now  and  again  when  <>p- 


MOLL  Y  BA  Wtf. 

portunity  occurred  is  a  fact  she  does  not  seek  to  deny,  but 
it  has  been  hitherto  in  the  careless,  half -earnest  manner 
young  men  of  the  present  day  affect  when  in  the  society  of 
a  pretty  woman,  and  has  caused  her  no  annoyance. 

That  he  should  now,  without  a  word  of  warning  (beyond 
the  slight  sparring-match  during  their  walk,  and  which  is 
one  of  a  series),  break  forth  with  so  much  vehemence  nnd 
apparent  sense  of  injury,  not  only  alarms  but  displeases 
her  ;  whilst  some  faint  idea  of  treachery  on  her  own  part 
toward  her  betrothed,  in  listening  to  such  words,  fills  her 
with  distress. 

There  is  a  depth,  an  earnestness,  about  Philip  not  to  be 
mistaken.  His  sombre  face  has  paled,  his  eyes  do  not 
meet  hers,  his  thin  nostrils  are  dilated,  as  though  breath- 
ing were  a  matter  of  difficulty ;  all  prove  him  genuinely 
disturbed. 

To  a  man  of  his  jealous,  passionate  nature,  to  love  is  a 
calamity.  No  return,  however  perfect,  can  quite  compen- 
sate him  for  all  the  pains  and  fears  his  passion  must  afford. 
Already  Philip's  torture  has  begun ;  already  the  pangs  of 
unrequited  love  have  seized  upon  him. 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  speak  to  me  like — as — in  such  a 
tone/'  Molly  says,  pettishly  and  uneasily.  "  Latterly,  I 
hate  going  anywhere  with  you,  you  are  so  ill-tempered  • 

and  now  to-day Why  cannot  you  be  pleasant  and 

friendly,  as  you  used  to  be  when  I  first  came  to  Herst  ?" 

"Ah,  why  indeed  ?"  returns  he,  bitterly. 

At  this  inauspicious  moment  a  small  rough  terrier  of 
Luttrell's  rushes  across  their  path,  almost  under  their  feet, 
bent  on  some  mad  chase  after  a  mocking  squirrel ;  and 
Philip,  maddened  just  then  by  doubts  and  the  coldness  of 
her  he  loves,  with  the  stick  he  carries  strikes  him  a  quick 
and  sudden  blow ;  not  heavy,  perhaps,  but  so  unexpected 
as  to  draw  from  the  pretty  brute  a  sharp  cry  of  pain. 

Hearing  a  sound  of  distress  from  his  favorite,  Luttrell 
turns,  and,  seeing  him  shrinking  away  from  Molly's  side, 
casts  upon  her  a  glance  full  of  the  liveliest  reproach,  that 
reduces  her  very  nearly  to  the  verge  of  tears.  To  be  so 
misunderstood,  and  all  through  this  tiresome  Philip,  it  is 
too  bad  !  As,  under  the  circumstances,  she  cannot  well 
indulge  her  grief,  she  does  the  next  best  thing,  and  gives 
way  to  temper. 

"  Don't  do  that  again,"  she  says,  with  eyes  that  flash  a 
little  through  their  forbidden  tears. 


MOLL  y  SA  WN.  2H 

"  "Why  ?  "  surprised  in  his  turn  at  her  vehemence  ;  "  it 
isn't  your  dog  ;  it's  Luttrell's." 

"No  matter  whose  dog  it  is  ;  don't  do  it  again.  I  de- 
test seeing  a  poor  brute  hurt,  and  for  no  cauue,  but  merely 
as  a  means  to  try  and  rid  yourself  of  some  of  your  ill- 
temper." 

"  There  is  more  ill-temper  going  than  mine.  I  beg  your 
pardon,  however.  I  had  no  idea  you  were  a  member  of 
the  Humane  Society.  You  should  study  the  bearing-rein 
question,  and  \ivisection,  and — that,"  with  a  sullen  laugh. 

"Nothing  annoys  me  so  much  as  wanton  cruelty  to 
dumb  animals." 

"There  are  other — perhaps  mistakenly  termed — superior 
animals  on  \vhom  even  you  can  inflict  torture,"  he  says, 
with  a  sneer.  "All  your  tenderness  must  be  reserved  for 
the  lower  creation.  You  talk  of  brutality  :  what  is  there 
in  all  the  earth  so  cruel  as  a  woman  ?  A  lover's  pain  is 
her  joy." 

"  You  are  getting  out  of  your  depth, — I  cannot  follow 
JQU,"  says  Molly,  coldly.  "  Why  should  you  and  I  discuss 
such  a  subject  as  lovers  ?  What  have  we  in  common  with 
them?  And  it  is  a  pity,  Philip,  you  should  allow  your 
anger  to  get  so  much  the  better  of  you.  When  you  look 
savage,  as  you  do  now,  you  remind  me  of  no  one  so  much 
as  grandpapa.  And  do  recollect  what  an  odious  old  man 
he  makes." 

This  finishes  the  conversation.  He  vouchsafes  her  no 
reply.  To  be  considered  like  Mr.  Amherst,  no  matter  in 
how  far-off  a  degree,  is  a  bitter  insult.  In  silence  they 
continue  their  walk ;  in  silence  reach  the  church  and  en- 
ter it. 

It  is  a  gloomy,  antiquated  building,  primitive  in  size, 
and  form,  and  service.  The  rector  is  well-meaning,  but 
decidedly  Low.  The  curate  is  unmeaning,  and  abominably 
slow.  The  clerk  does  a  great  part  of  the  duty. 

He  is  an  old  man,  and  regarded  rather  in  the  light  of  an 
institution  in  this  part  of  the  county.  Being  stone  deaf, 
he  puts  in  the  responses  anyhow,  always  in  the  wrong 
place,  and  never  finds  out  his  mistake  until  he  sees  the 
clergyman's  lips  set  firm,  and  on  his  face  a  look  of  patient 
expectation,  when  he  coughs  apologetically,  and  says  them 
all  over  again. 

There  is  an  "Amen"  in  the  middle  of  every  prayer,  and 
then  one  at  the  end.  This  gives  him  double'  trouble,  and 


gig  MOLL  Y  JSA  WN. 

makes  him  draw  his  salary  with  a  clear  conscience.  It  also 
• i -rentes  a  lively  time  for  the  school-children,  who  once  at 
least  on  every  Sunday  give  way  to  a  loud  burst  of  merri- 
ment, and  are  only  restored  to  a  sense  of  duty  by  a  severe 
blow  administered  by  the  sandy-haired  teacher. 

It  is  a  good  old-fashioned  church  too,  where  the  sides  ot 
the  pews  are  so  high  that  one  can  with  difficulty  look  over 
them,  and  where  the  affluent  man  can  have  a  real  fire-place 
all  to  himself,  with  a  real  poker  and  tongs  and  shovel  to 
incite  it  to  a  blaze  every  now  and  again. 

Here,  too,  without  rebuke  the  neighbors  can  seize  the 
opportunity  of  conversing  with  each  other  across  the  pews, 
by  standing  on  tiptoe,  when  occasion  offers  during  the  ser- 
vice,  as,  for  instance,  when  the  poor-box  is  going  round. 
And  it  is  a  poor-box,  and  no  mistake, — flat,  broad,  and 
undeniable  pewter,  at  which  the  dainty  bafj.  of  a  city  chapel 
would  have  blushed  with  shame. 

When  the  clergyman  goes  into  the  pulpit  every  one  in- 
stantly blows  his  or  her  nose,  and  coughs  his  or  her  loudest 
before  the  text  is  given  out,  under  a  mistaken  impression 
that  they  can  get  it  all  over  at  once,  and  not  have  to  do  it 
at  intervals  further  on.  This  is  a  compliment  to  the  clergy- 
man, expressing  their  intention  of  hearing  him  undisturbed 
to  the  end,  and,  I  suppose,  is  received  as  such. 

It  is  an  attentive  congregation, — dangerously  so,  for 
what  man  but  blunders  in  his  sermon  now  and  then  ?  And 
who  likes  being  twitted  on  week-days  for  opinions  expressed 
on  Sundays,  more  especially  if  he  has  not  altogether  acted 
up  to  them  !  It  is  a  suspicious  congregation  too  (though 
perhaps  not  singularly  so,  for  I  have  perceived  others  do 
the  same),  because  whenever  their  priest  names  a  chapter 
and  verse  for  any  text  he  may  choose  to  insert  in  his  dis- 
course, instantly  and  with  avidity  each  and  all  turn  over 
the  leaves  of  their  Bibles,  to  see  if  it  be  really  in  the  iden- 
tical spot  mentioned,  or  whether  their  pastor  has  been  lying. 
This  action  may  not  be  altogether  suspicion  ;  it  may  be  also 
thought  of  as  a  safety-valve  for  their  ennui,  the  rector  never 
letting  them  off  until  they  have  had  sixty  good  minutes  of 
his  valuable  doctrine. 

All  the  Herst  party  conduct  themselves  with  due  dis- 
cretion save  Mr.  Potts,  who,  being  overcome  by  the  novelty 
of  the  situation  and  the  length  of  the  sermon,  falls  fast 
asleep,  and  presently,  at  some  denunciatory  passage,  pro- 
nounced in  a  rather  distinct  tone  by  the  rector,  rousing 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  313 

himself  with  a  precipitate  jerk,  sends  all  the  fire-irons  with 
a  fine  clatter  to  the  ground,  he  having  been  most  unhappily 
placed  nearest  the  grate. 

"The  ruling  passion  strong  in  death,"  says  Luttrell, 
with  a  despairing  glance  at  the  culprit ;  whereupon  Molly 
nearly  laughs  outright,  while  the  school-children  do  so 
quite. 

Beyond  this  small  contre-temps,  however,  nothing  of 
note  occurs  ;  and,  service  being  over,  they  all  file  deco- 
rously out  of  the  church  into  the  picturesque  porch  outside, 
where  they  stand  for  a  few  minutes  interchanging  greetings 
with  such  of  the  county  families  as  come  within  their 
knowledge. 

With  a  few  others  too,  who  scarcely  come  within  that 
aristocratic  pale,  notably  Mrs.  Buscarlet.  She  is  a  tremen- 
dously stout,  distressingly  healthy  woman,  quite  capable  of 
putting  her  husband  in  a  corner  of  her  capacious  pocket, 
which,  by  the  bye,  she  insists  on  wearing  outside  her  gown, 
in  a  fashion  beloved  of  our  great-grandmothers,  and  which, 
in  a  modified  form,  last  year  was  much  affected  by  our  own 
generation. 

This  alarming  personage  greets  Marcia  with  the  utmost 
bonhommie,  being  apparently  blind  to  the  coldness  of  her 
reception.  She  greets  Lady  Stafford  also,  who  is  likewise 
at  freezing-point,  and  then  gets  introduced  to  Molly.  Mrs. 
Darley,  who  even  to  the  uninitiated  Mrs.  Buscarlet  appears 
a  person  unworthy  of  notice,  she  lets  go  free,  for  which 
favor  Mrs.  Darley  is  devoutly  grateful. 

Little  Buscarlet  himself,  who  has  a  weakness  for  birth, 
in  that  he  lacks  it,  comes  rambling  up  to  them  at  this  junc- 
ture, and  tells,  them,  with  many  a  smirk,  he  hopes  to  have 
the  pleasure  of  lunching  with  them  at  Herst,  Mr.  Amherst 
having  sent  him  a  special  invitation,  as  he  has  something 
particular  to  say  to  him  ;  whereupon  Molly,  who  is  nearest 
to  him,  laughs,  and  tells  him  she  had  no  idea  such  luck  wai 
in  store  for  her. 

"You  are  the  greatest  hypocrite  I  ever  met  in  my 
life,"  Sir  Penthony  says  in  her  ear,  when  Buscarlet,  smil- 
ing, bowing,  radiant,  has  moved  on. 

"I  am  not  indeed;  you  altogether  mistake  me,"  Molly 
answers.  "  If  you  only  knew  how  his  anxiety  to  please,  and 
Marcia's  determination  not  to  be  pleased,  amuse  me,  yon 
would  understand  how  thoroughly  I  enjoy  his  visits." 

"  I  ask  your  pardon.     I  had  no  idea  we  lia-,1.  a  student 


31 4  MOLLY  BAWN. 

of  human  nature  among  us.  Don't  study  me,  Miss  Mas-- 
sereene,  or  it  will  unfit  you  for  further  exertions  ;  I  am  3 
living  mass  of  errors." 

"  Alas  that  I  cannot  contradict  you  ! "  says  Cecil,  with 
a  woful  sigh,  who  is  standing  near  them. 

Mr.  Amherst,  who  never  by  any  chance  darkens  the 
doors  of  a  church,  receives  them  in  the  drawing-room  on 
their  return.  He  is  in  an  amiable  mood  and  pleased  to  be 
.gracious.  Seizing  upon  Mr.  Buscarlet,  he  carries  him  off 
with  him  to  his  private  den,  so  that  for  the  time  being 
there  is  an  end  of  them. 

"For  all  small  mercies/'  begins  Mr.  Potts,  solemnly, 
when  the  door  has  closed  on  them  ;  but  he  is  interrupted 
by  Lady  Stafford. 

" '  Small/  indeed/'  grumbles  she.  "  What  do  you 
mean  ?  I  shan't  be  able  to  eat  my  lunch  if  that  odious 
little  man  remains,  with  his  '  Yes,  Lady  Stafford  ; '  '  No, 
Lady  Stafford  ; '  '  I  quite  agree  with  your  ladyship/  and 
so  on.  Oh,  that  I  could  drop  my  title!" — this  with  a 
glance  at  Sir  Penthony  ; — "at  all  events  while  he  is  pres- 
ent." This  with  another  and  more  gracious  glance  at 
Stafford.  "  Positively  I  feel  my  appetite  going  already, 
and  that  is  a  pity,  as  it  was  an  uncommonly  good  one." 

"Cheer  up,  dear,"  says  Molly;  "and  remember  there 
will  be  dinner  later  on.  Poor  Mr.  Buscarlet !  There  must 
be  something  wrong  with  me,  because  I  cannot  bring  my- 
self to  think  so  disparagingly  of  him  as  you  all  do." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you.  Not  to  know  Mr.  Buscarlet's  little 
peculiarities  of  behavior  argues  yourself  unknown,"  Marcia 
says,  with  a  good  deal  of  intention.  "And  I  presume 
they  cannot  have  struck  you,  or  you  would  scarcely  be  so 
tolerant." 

"  He  certainly  sneezes  very  incessantly  and  very  objec- 
tionably," Molly  says,  thoughtfully.  "  I  hate  a  man  who 
sneezes  publicly  ;  and  his  sneeze  is  so  unpleasant, — sc 
exactly  like  that  of  a  cat.  A  little  wriggle  of  the  entire 
body,  and  then  a  little  soft — splash  !  " 

"  My  dear  Molly  ! "  expostulates  Lady  Stafford. 

"  But  is  it  not  ?  "  protests  she  ;  "  is  it  not  an  accurate 
description  ?  " 

"  Yes,  its  accuracy  is  its  fault.  I  almost  thought  the 
man  was  in  the  room." 

"  And  then  there  is  Mrs.  Buscarlet :  I  never  saw  any 
one  like  Mrs.  Buscarlet,"  Maud  Darley  says,  plaintively,- 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

"  did  you  ?  There  is  so  much  of  her,  and  it  is  all  so  nasty. 
And,  oh  !  her  voice !  it  is  like  wind  whistling  through  a 
key-hole." 

"Poor  woman,"  says  Luttrell,  regretfully,  "I  think  I 
could  have  forgiven  her  had  she  not  worn  that  very  verdant 
gown." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  thought  the  contrast  between  it  and 
her  cheeks  the  most  perfect  thing  I  ever  saw.  It  is  evident 
you  have  not  got  the  eye  of  an  artist,"  Sir  Penthony  says, 
rather  unfeelingly. 

"I  never  saw  any  one  so  distressingly  healthy,"  says 
Maud,  still  plaintively.  "Fat  people  are  my  aversion.  I 
don't  mind  a  comfortable-looking  body,  but  she  is  much 
too  stout." 

'•'Let  us  alter  that  last  remark  and  say  she  has  had  too 
much  stout,  and  perhaps  we  shall  define  her,"  remarks 
Tedcastle.  "I  hate  a  woman  who  shows  her  food." 

"The  way  she  traduced  those  Sedleys  rather  amused 
me,"  Molly  says,  laughing.  "I  certainly  thought  her 
opinion  of  her  neighbors  very  pronounced." 

"She  shouldn't  have  any  opinion,"  says  Lady  Stafford, 
with  decision.  "You,  my  dear  Molly,  take  an  entirely 
wrong  view  of  it.  Such  people  as  the  Buscarlets,  sprung 
from  nobody  knows  where,  or  cares  to  know,  should  be  kept 
in  their  proper  place,  and  be  sat  upon  the  very  instant  they 
develop  a  desire  to  progress." 

"How  can  you  be  so  illiberal  ?"  exclaims  Molly,  aghast 
at  so  much  misplaced  vehemence.  "  Why  should  they  not 
rise  with  the  rest  of  the  world  ? " 

"  Eleanor  has  quite  a  penchant  for  the  Buscarlete,"  says 
Marcia,  with  a  sneer ;  "  she  has  quite  adopted  them,  and 
either  will  not,  or  perhaps  does  not,  see  their  enormi- 
ties." 

Nobody  cares  to  notice  this  impertinence,  and  Mr.  Potts 
says,  gravely : 

"Lady  Stafford  has  never  forgiven  Mrs.  Buscarlet  be- 
cause once,  at  a  ball  here,  she  told  her  she  was  looking  very 
'  distangy.'  Is  that  not  true  ?  " 

Cecil  laughs. 

"Why  should  not  every  one  have  an  opinion  ?"  Molly 
persists.  "  I  agree  with  the  old  song  that  '  Britons  never 
shall  be  slaves : '  therefore,  why  should  they  not  assert 
themselves  ?  In  a  hundred  years  hence  they  will  have  all 
the  manners  and  airs  of  we  others." 


gig  MOLLY  BAH'tf. 

"  Then  they  should  be  locked  up  during  the  intermediate 
stage,"  says  Cecil,  with  an  uncompromising  nod  of  her 
blonde  head.  "  I  call  them  insufferable  ;  and  if  Mr.  Bus- 
carlet  when  he  comes  in  again  makes  himself  agreeable  to 
me — me  ! — I  shall  insult  him, — that's  all  !  No  use  argu- 
ing with  me,  Molly, — I  shall  indeed."  She  softens  this 
awful  threat  by  a  merry  sweet-tempered  little  laugh. 

"  Let  us  forget  the  little  lawyer  and  talk  of  something 
we  all  enjoy, — to-day's  sermon,  for  instance.  You  admired 
it,  Potts,  didn't  you  ?  I  never  saw  any  one  so  attentive  in 
my  life,"  says  Sir  Penthony. 

Potts  tries  to  look  as  if  he  had  never  succumbed  during 
service  to  ( '  Nature's  sweet  restorer ; "  and  Molly  says,  apolo- 
getically : 

"  How  could  he  help  it  ?    The  sermon  was  so  long/' 

"Yes,  wasn't  it? "agrees  Plantagenet,  eagerly.  "The 
longest  I  ever  heard.  That  man  deserves  to  be  suppressed 
or  excommunicated ;  and  the  parishioners  ought  to  send 
him  a  round  robin  to  that  effect.  Odd,  too,  how  much  at 
sea  one  feels  with  a  strange  prayer-book.  One  looks  for 
one's  prayer  at  the  top  of  the  page,  where  it  always  used 
to  be  in  one's  own  particular  edition,  and,  lo  !  one  finds  it 
at  the  bottom.  Whatever  you  may  do  for  the  future,  Lady 
Stafford,  don't  lend  me  your  prayer-book.  But  for  the  in- 
cessant trouble  it  caused  me,  between  losing  my  place  and 
finding  it  again,  I  don't  believe  I  should  have  dropped  into 
that  gentle  doze." 

"  Had  you  ever  a  prayer-book  of  your  own  ?  "  asks  Cecil, 
unkindly.  "Because  if  so  it  is  a  pity  you  don't  air  it  now 
and  again.  I  have  known  you  a  great  many  years, — more 
than  I  care  to  count, — and  never,  never  have  I  seen  you  with 
the  vestige  of  one.  I  shall  send  you  a  pocket  edition  as 
a  Christmas-box." 

"Thanks  awfully.  I  shall  value  it  for  the  giver's  sake. 
And  I  promise  you  that  when  next  we  meet — such  care  shall 
it  receive — even  you  will  be  unable  to  discover  a  scratch  on 
it." 

"  Plantagenet,  you  are  a  bad  boy,"  says  Cecil. 

"  I  thought  the  choir  rather  good,"  Molly  is  saying ; 
"  but  why  must  a  man  read  the  service  in  a  long,  slow, 
tearful  tone  ?  Surely  there  is  no  good  to  be  gained  by  it  ; 
and  to  find  one's  self  at '  Amen  '  when  he  is  only  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  prayer  has  something  intolerably  irritating  about 
it,  I  could  have  shaken  that  curate." 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  J11? 

"Why  didn't  you?"  says  Sir  Penthony.  "I  would 
have  backed  you  up  with  the  greatest  pleasure.  The  person 
I  liked  best  was  the  old  gentleman  with  the  lint-white  locks 
who  said  *  Yamen '  so  persistently  in  the  wrong  place  all 
through  ;  I  grew  quite  interested  at  last,  and  knew  the 
exact  spot  where  it  was  likely  to  come  in.  I  must  say  I 
admire  consistency." 

"  How  hard  it  is  to  keep  one's  attention  fixed,"  Molly 
gays,  meditatively,  "  and  to  preserve  a  properly  dismal  ex- 
pression of  countenance  !  To  look  solemn  always  means  to 
look  severe,  as  far  as  I  can  judge.  And  did  you  ever  no- 
tice when  a  rather  lively  and  secular  set  of  bars  occur  in 
the  voluntary,  how  people  cheer  up  and  rouse  themselves, 
and  give  way  to  a  little  sigh  or  two  ?  I  hope  it  isn't  a  sigh 
of  relief.  We  feel  it's  wicked,  but  we  always  do  it." 

"  Still  studying  poor  human  nature,"  exclaims  Sir  Pen- 
thony. "Miss  Massereene,  I  begin  to  think  you  a  terriblfe 
person,  and  to  tremble  when  I  meet  your  gaze." 

"  Well,  at  all  events  no  one  can  accuse  them  of  being 
High  Church,"  says  Mrs.  Darley,  alluding  to  her  pastors 
and  masters  for  the  time  being.  "  The  service  was  wretch- 
edly conducted ;  hardly  any  music,  and  not  a  flower  to 
gpeak  of." 

"  My  dear  !  High  Church  !  How  could  you  expect  it  ? 
Only  fancy  that  curate  intoning  ! "  says  Cecil,  with  a 
laugh. 

"  I  couldn't,"  declares  Sir  Penthony;  "so  much  exer- 
tion would  kill  me." 

"  That's  why  he  isn't  High  Church,"  says  Mr.  Potts  of 
the  curate,  speaking  with  a  rather  sweeping  air  of  criticism. 
"  He  ain't  musical ;  he  can't  intone.  Take  my  word  for  it, 
half  the  clergy  are  Anglicans  merely  because  they  think 
they  have  voices,  and  feel  what  a  loss  the  world  will  sustain 
if  it  don't  hear  them." 

"  Oh,  what  a  malicious  remark  ! "  says  Molly,  much  dis- 
gusted. 

Here  the  scene  is  further  enlivened  by  the  reappearance 
of  Mr.  Amherst  and  the  lawyer,  which  effectually  ends  the 
conversation  and  turns  their  thoughts  toward  the  dining- 
room. 


218  MOLLY 


CHAPTEE  XX. 

"Trifles  light  as  air."—  Othetto, 

luncheon  is  over,  Sir  Penthony  Stafford  retires 
to  write  a  letter  or  two,  and  half  an  hour  afterward,  re- 
turning to  the  drawing-room,  finds  himself  in  the  presence 
of  Mr.  Buscarlet,  unsupported. 

The  little  lawyer  smiles  benignly  ;  Sir  Penthony  re- 
sponds, and,  throwing  himself  into  a  lounging-chair,  makea 
up  his  mind  to  be  agreeable. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Buscarlet,  and  what  did  you  think  of  the 
sermon  ?  "  he  says,  briskly,  being  rather  at  a  loss  for  a  con- 
genial topic.  "  Tedious,  eh  ?  I  saw  you  talking  to  Lady 
Elizabeth  after  service  was  over.  She  is  a  fine  woman,  all 
things  considered." 

"She  is  indeed,  —  remarkably  so  :  a  very  fine  presence 
for  her  time  of  life." 

"  Well,  there  certainly  is  not  much  to  choose  between 
her  and  the  hills  in  point  of  age/'  allows  Sir  Penthony,  ab- 
sently —  he  is  inwardly  wondering  where  Cecil  can  have 
gone  to,  —  "still  she  is  a  nice  old  lady." 

"  Quite  so,  —  quite  so  ;  very  elegant  in  manner,  and  in 
appearance  decidedly  high-bred." 

"  Hybrid  !  "  exclaims  Sir  Penthony,  purposely  misun- 
derstanding the  word.  "  Oh,  by  Jove,  I  didn't  think  you 
so  severe.  You  allude,  of  course,  to  her  ladyship's  mother, 


you  capable  of  anything 
must  remember  to  tell  it  at  dinner  to  the  others.     It  is 
just  the  sort  of  thing  to  delight  Mr.  Amherst." 

Now,  this  lawyer  has  a  passion  for  the  aristocracy.  To 
be  noticed  by  a  lord, — to  press  "her  ladyship's " hand, — to 
hold  sweet  converse  with  the  smallest  scion  of  a  noble 
house, — is  as  honey  to  his  lips ;  therefore  to  be  thought 
guilty  of  an  impertinence  to  one  of  this  sacred  community, 
to  have  uttered  a  word  that,  if  repeated,  would  effectually 
close  to  him  the  doors  of  Lady  Elizabeth's  house,  fills  him 
with  horror. 

"My  dear  Sir  Penthony,  pardon  me,"  he  says,  hastily, 


MOLLY  SAWN.  219 

divided  between  the  fear  of  offending  the  baronet  and  a 
desire  to  set  himself  straight  in  his  own  eyes,  "  you  quite 
mistake  me.  '  Hybrid  ! ' — such  a  word,  such  a  thought, 
never  occurred  to  me  in  connection  with  Lady  Elizabeth 
Eyre,  whom  I  hold  in  much  reverence.  Highly  bred  I 
meant.  I  assure  you  you  altogether  misunderstand.  I — I 
never  made  a  joke  in  my  life." 

"  Then  let  me  congratulate  you  on  your  maiden  effort ;' 
you  have  every  reason  to  be  proud  of  it,"  laughs  Sir  Pen- 
thony,  who  is  highly  delighted  at  the  success  of  his  own 
manoeuvre.  "  Don't  be  modest.  You  have  made  a  decided 
hit :  it  is  as  good  a  thing  as  ever  I  heard.  But  how  about 
Lady  Elizabeth,  eh  ?  should  sJis  hear  it  ?  Keally,  you  will 
have  to  suppress  your  wit,  or  it  will  lead  you  into  trouble/* 

"  But — but — if  you  will  only  allow  me  to  explain — I  pro- 
test I " 

"Ah!  here  come  Lady  Stafford  and  Miss  Massereene. 
Positively  you  must  allow  me  to  tell  them "  And,  re- 
fusing to  listen  to  Mr.  Buscarlet's  vehement  protestations, 
he  relates  to  the  new-comers  his  version  of  the  lawyer's 
harmless  remark,  accompanying  the  story  witk  an  express- 
ive glance — that  closely  resembles  a  wink — at  Lady  Staf- 
ford. "  I  must  go,"  he  says,  when  he  has  finished,  moving 
toward  the  door,  "though  I  hardly  think  I  do  wisely,  leav- 
ing you  alone  with  so  dangerous  a  companion." 

"I  assure  you,  my  dear  Lady  Stafford,"  declares  Mr. 
Buscarlet,  with  tears  in  his  eyes  and  dew  on  his  brow,  "it 
is  all  a  horrible,  an  unaccountable  mistake,  a  mere  connec- 
tion of  ideas  by  your  husband, — no  more,  no  more,  I  give 
you  my  most  sacred  honor." 

"Oh,  sly  Mr.  Buscarlet!"  cries  her  ladyship,  lightly, 
"  cruel  Mr.  Buscarlet !  Who  would  have  thought  it  of 
you  ?  And  we  all  imagined  you  such  an  ally  of  poor  dear 
Lady  Elizabeth.  To  make  a  joke  about  her  parentage,  and 
'•such  a  good  one  too  !  And  Sir  Penthony  found  you  out  ? 
Clever  Sir  Penthony." 

"I  swear,  my  dear  lady,  I " 

"  Ah,  ha  !  wait  till  she  hears  of  it.  How  she  will  enjoy 
it  !  With  all  her  faults,  she  is  good-tempered.  It  wiu 
amuse  her.  Molly,  my  dear,  is  not  Mr.  Buscarlet  terribly 
severe  ?  " 

"Naughty  Mr.  Buscarlet!"  says  Molly,  shaking  a  re- 
proachful dainty- white  finger  at  him.  "  And  I  believed 
you  so  haruiless," 


220  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

At  this  they  both  laugh  so  immoderately  that  presently 
the  lawyer  loses  all  patience,  and,  taking  up  his  hat,  rushes 
from  the  room  in  a  greater  rage  than  he  could  have  thought 
possible,  considering  that  one  of  his  provocators  bears  a 
title. 

They  are  still  laughing  when  the  others  enter  the  room, 
and  insist  on  learning  the  secret  of  their  mirth.  Tedcastle 
alone  fails  to  enjoy  it.  He  is  distrait,  and  evidently  op- 
pressed with  care.  Seeing  this,  Molly  takes  heart  of  grace, 
and,  crossing  to  his  side,  says,  sweetly  : 

"  Do  you  see  how  the  day  has  cleared  ?  That  lovely  sun 
is  tempting  me  to  go  out.  Will  you  take  me  for  a  Avalk  ?  " 

"  Certainly, — if  you  want  to  go."    Very  coldly. 

"  But  of  course  I  do  ;  and  nobody  has  asked  me  to  ac- 
company them  ;  so  I  am  obliged  to  thrust  myself  on  you. 
If" — with  a  bewitching  smile — "you  won't  mind  the 
trouble  just  this  once,  I  will  promise  not  to  torment  you 
again/' 

Through  fhe  gardens,  and  out  into  the  shrubberies  be- 
yond, they  go  in  silence,  until  they  reach  the  open  ;  then 
Molly  says,  laughing  :  "I  know  you  are  going  to  scold  me 
about  Mr.  Potts.  Begin  at  once,  and  let  us  get  it  over/' 

Her  manner  is  so  sweet,  and  she  looks  so  gay,  so  fresh, 
so  harmless,  that  his  anger  melts  as  dew  beneath  the  sun. 

"  You  need  not  have  let  him  place  his  arm  around  you," 
he  says,  jealously. 

"  If  I  hadn't  I  should  have  slipped  off  the  pedestal ;  and 
what  did  his  arm  signify  in  comparison  with  that  ?  Think 
of  my  grandfather's  face  ;  think  of  mine  ;  think  of  all  the 
horrible  consequences.  I  should  have  been  sent  home  in 
disgrace,  perhaps — who  knows  ? — put  in  prison,  and  yon 
might  '  never,  never,  see  your  darling  any  more/  * 

She  laughs. 

'  What  a  jealous  fellow  you  are,  Ted  ! " 

'Am  I?"— ruefully.  "I  don't  think  I  used  to  be.  I 
never  remember  being  jealous  before." 

'  No  ?     I  am  glad  to  hear  it." 

'Why?" 

'  Because  " — with  an  adorable  glance  and  a  faint  press- 
ure of  his  arm — "it  proves  to  me  you  have  never  loved 
before." 

This  tender  insinuation  blots  out  all  remaining  vapors, 
leaving  the  atmosphere  clear  and  free  of  clouds  for  the 
rest  of  their  walk,  which  lasts  till  almost  evening.  Just 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  321 

before  they  reach  the  house,  Luttrell  says,  with  liesita- 
tion  : 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  but  I  am  afraid  if  I  do 
say  it  you  will  be  angry." 

"  Then  don't  say  it,"  says  Miss  Massereene,  equably. 
"  That  is  about  the  most  foolish  thing  one  can  do.  To 
make  a  person  angry  unintentionally  is  bad  enough,  but  to 
know  you  are  going  to  do  it,  and  to  say  so,  has  something 
about  it  rash,  not  to  say  impertinent.  If  you  are  fortunate 
enough  to  know  the  point  in  the  conversation  that  is  sure 
to  rouse  me  to  wrath,  why  not  carefully  skirt  round  it  ? " 

"  Because  I  lose  a  chance  if  I  leave  it  unsaid ;  and  you 
differ  so  widely  from  most  girls — it  may  not  provoke  you." 

"  Now  you  compel  me  to  it/'  says  Molly,  laughing. 
"  What !  do  you  think  I  could  suffer  myself  to  be  con- 
sidered a  thing  apart?  Impossible.  No  one  likes  to  be 
thought  odd  or  eccentric  except  rich  old  men,  and  Bo- 
hemians, and  poets  ;  therefore  I  insist  on  following  closely 
in  my  sisters'  footsteps,  and  warn  you  I  shall  be  in  a  furious 
passion  the  moment  you  speak,  whether  or  not  I  am  really 
annoyed.  Now  go  on  if  you  dare  ?  " 

"  Well,  look  here/'  begins  Luttrell,  in  a  conciliating 
tone. 

"  There  is  not  the  slightest  use  in  your  beating  about  the 
bush,  Teddy,"  says  Miss  Massereene,  calmly.  "  I  am  going 
to  be  angry,  so  do  not  waste  time  in  diplomacy." 

"  Molly,  how  provoking  you  are  !  " 

"No !  Am  I?  Because  I  wish  to  be  like  other 
women  ?  " 

"  A  hopeless  wish,  and  a  very  unwise  one." 

"  '  Hopeless  ! '  And  why,  pray  ?  "  With  a  little  up- 
lifting of  the  straight  brows  and  a  little  gleam  from  under 
the  long  curled  lasnes. 

"Because,"  says  her  lover,  with  fond  conviction,  "you 
are  so  infinitely  superior  to  them,  that  they  would  have  to 
be  born  all  over  again  before  you  could  bring  yourself  to 
fall  into  their  ways." 

"What  !  every  woman  in  the  known  world?  " 

"  Every  one  of  them,  I  am  eternally  convinced." 

"Teddy,"  says  Molly,  rubbing  her  cheek  in  her  old 
caressing  fashion  against  his  sleeve,  and  slipping  her  fingers 
into  his,  "  you  may  go  on.  Say  anything  you  like, — call 
me  any  name  you  choose, — and  1  promise  not  to  be  one  bit 
angry.  There  I " 


282  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

When  Luttrell  has  allowed  himself  time  to  let  his  own 
strong  brown  fingers  close  upon  hers,  and  has  solaced  him- 
self still  further  by  pressing  his  lips  to  them,  he  takes 
courage  and  goes  on,  with  a  slightly  accelerated  color  : 

"  Well,  you  see,  Molly,  you  have  made  the  subject  a  for- 
bidden one,  and — er — it  is  about  our  engagement  I  want  to 
speak.  Now,  remember  your  promise,  darling,  and  don't 
be  vexed  with  me  if  I  ask  you  to  shorten  it.  Many  people 
marry  and  are  quite  comfortable  on  five  hundred  pounds  a 
year ;  why  should  not  we  ?  I  know  a  lot  of  fellows  who 
are  doing  uncommonly  well  on  less." 

"  Poor  fellows  ! "  says  Molly,  full  of  sympathy. 

"I  know  I  am  asking  yon  a  great  deal," — rather  ner« 
vously, — "but  won't  you  think  of  it,  Molly  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  I  won't,  just  yet,"  replies  that  lady, 
suavely.  "  Be  sensible,  Teddy  ;  remember  all  we  said  to 
Jctn,  and  think  how  foolish  we  should  look  going  back  of 
it  a*l.  Why  should  things  not  go  on  safely  and  secretly, 
as  at  present,  and  let  us  put  marriage  out  of  our  heads 
until  something  turns  up  ?  I  am  like  Mr.  Micawber  ;  I 
have  an  almost  religious  belief  in  the  power  things  have  of 
turning  up." 

"/haven't,"  says  Luttrell,  with  terse  melancholy. 

"So  much  the  worse  for  you.  And  besides,  Teddy, 
instinct  tells  me  you  are  much  nicer  as  a  lover  than  you 
will  be  as  a  husband.  Once  you  attain  to  that  position, 
I  doubt  I  shall  be  able  to  order  you  about  as  I  do  at 
present. " 

"Try  me." 

"  Not  for  a  while.  There,  don't  look  so  iismal,  Ted ; 
are  we  not  perfectly  happy  as  we  are  ?  " 

"You  may  be,  perhaps." 

"  Don't  say,  '  perhaps  ; '  you  may  be  certain  of  it,"  says 
she,  gayly.  "  I  haven't  a  doubt  on  the  subject.  Come,  do 
look  cheerful  again.  Men  as  fair  as  you  should  cultivate  a 
perpetual  smile." 

"I  wish  I  was  a  nigger,"  says  Luttrell,  impatiently. 
"You  have  such  an  admiration  for  blackamoors,  that 
then,  perhaps,  you  might  learn  to  care  for  me  a  degree 
more  than  you  do  just  now.  Shad  well  is  dark  enough  foi 
you." 

"  Yes  ;  isn't  he  handsome  ?  "  With  much  innocent  en- 
thusiasm. "  I  thought  last  night  at  dinner,  when " 

"  I  don't  in  the  least  want  to  know  what  you  thought 


MOLLY  BAWN.  224 

last  night  ef  ShadwelPs  personal  appearance,"  Luttrell  in-, 
terrupts  her,  angrily. 

"  And  I  don't  in  the  least  want  you  to  hold  my  hand  3 
moment  longer/'  replies  Miss  Massereene,  with  saucy  re- 
taliation, drawing  her  fingers  from  his  with  a  sudden  move- 
ment, and  running  away  from  him  up  the  stone  steps  of 
the  balcony  into  the  house. 


All  through  the  night,  both  when  waking  and  in  dreams, 
the  remembrance  of  the  slight  cast  upon  her  absent  mother 
by  Mr.  Amherst,  and  her  own  eilent  acceptance  of  it,  has 
disturbed  the  mind  of  Marcia.  "A  dancer  ! "  The  wortj 
enrages  her. 

Molly's  little  passionate  movement  and  outspoken  deter- 
mination to  hear  no  ill  spoken  of  her  dead  father  showed 
Marcia  even  more  forcibly  her  own  cowardice  and  mean 
policy  of  action.  And  be  sure  she  likes  Molly  none  the 
more  in  that  she  was  the  one  to  show  it.  Yet  Molly  can- 
sot  possibly  entertain  the  same  affection  for  a  mere  mem- 
ory that  sne  feels  for  the  mother  on  whom  she  has  ex- 
pended all  the  really  pure  and  true  love  of  which  she  is 
capable. 

It  is  not,  therefore,  toward  her  grandfather,  whose  evil 
tongue  has  ever  been  his  own  undoing,  she  cherishes  the 
greatest  bitterness,  but  toward  herself,  together  with  a 
certain  scorn  that,  through  moneyed  motives,  she  has  tutored 
herself  to  sit  by  and  hear  the  one  she  loves  lightly  men- 
tioned. 

Now,  looking  back  upon  it,  it  appears  to  her  grossest 
treachery  to  the  mother  whose  every  thought  she  knows  is 
hers,  and  who,  in  her  foreign  home,  lives  waiting,  hoping, 
for  the  word  that  shall  restore  her  to  her  arms. 

A  kind  of  anxiety  to  communicate  with  the  injured  one, 
and  to  pour  out  on  paper  the  love  she  bears  her,  but  dares 
not  breathe  at  Herst,  fills  Marcia.  So  that  when  the  house 
is  silent  on  this  Sunday  afternoon, — when  all  the  others 
have  wandered  into  the  open  air, — she  makes  her  way  to 
the  library,  and,  sitting  down,  commences  one  of  the 
lengthy,  secret,  forbidden  missives  that  always  find  their 
way  to  Italy,  in  spite  of  prying  eyes  and  all  the  untold  evils 
that  so  surely  wait  upon  discovery. 

To  any  one  acquainted  witn  Marcia,  her  manner  of  com- 


MOLL  Y  BA  Wti. 

mencing  her  letter  would  be  a  revelation.  To  one  so  oold, 
BO  self-contained,  the  weaker  symptoms  of  affection  are  dis- 
allowed ;  yet  this  is  how  she  begins  : 

•'My  own  Beloved, —  As  yet  I  have  no  good  newg  to 
send  you,  and  little  that  I  can  say, — though  ever  as  I  write 
to  you  my  heart  is  full.  The  old  man  grows  daily  more 
wearisome,  more  detestable,  more  inhuman,  yet  shows  no 
sign  of  death.  He  is  even,  as  it  seems  to  me,  stronger  and 
more  full  of  life  than  when  last  I  wrote  to  you,  now  three 
weeks  ago.  At  times  I  feel  dispirited,  almost  despairing, 
«ind  wonder  if  the  day  will  ever  come  when  we  two  shall 
be  reunited, — when  I  shall  be  able  to  welcome  you  to  my 
English  home,  where,  in  spite  of  prejudices,  you  will  be 
happy,  because  you  will  be  with  me." 

Here,  unluckily,  because  of  the  trembling  of  her  fingers, 
a  large  spot  of  ink  falls  heavily  from  her  pen  upon  the 
Mlf-written  page  beneath,  destroying  it. 

With  an  exclamation  expressive  of  impatience,  Marcia 
pushes  the  sheet  to  one  side  and  hastily  commences  again 
upon  another.  This  time  she  is  more  successful,  and  has 
reached  almost  the  last  word  in  her  final  tender  message, 
when  a  footstep  approaching  disturbs  her.  Gathering  up 
her  papers,  she  quits  the  library  by  its  second  door,  and, 
gaining  her  own  room,  finishes  and  seals  her  packet. 

Not  until  then  does  she  perceive  that  the  blotted  sheet 
is  no  longer  in  her  possession, —  that  by  some  untoward 
accident  she  must  have  forgotten  it  behind  her  in  her 
flight. 

Consternation  seizes  her.  Whose  were  the  footsteps 
that  broke  in  upon  her  quietude  ?  Why  had  she  not  stood 
her  ground?  With  a  beating  heart  she  runs  down-stairs, 
enters  the  library  once  more  with  cautious  steps,  only  to 
find  it  empty.  But,  search  as  she  may,  the  missing  paper 
is  not  to  be  found. 

What  if  it  has  fallen  into  her  grandfather's  keeping  ! 
A  cold  horror  falls  upon  her=  Alter  all  these  weary  years 
of  hated  servitude  to  be  undone  !  It  is  impossible  even 
fickle  fortune  should  play  her  such  a  deadly  trick  ! 

Yet  the  horror  continues  until  she  finds  herself  again 
face  to  face  with  her  grandfather.  He  is  more  than  usually 
gracious, — indeed,  almost  marked  in  his  attentions  to  her, 
— and  once  more  Marcia  breathes  freely.  No  ;  probably 
the  paper  was  destroyed  ;  even  she  herself  in  a  fit  of  ab- 
itraction  may  have  torn  it  up  before  leaving  the  library. 


MOLL  Y  BA  Wtf.  225 

rfhe  evening,  being  Sunday,  proves  even  duller  than 
usual.  Mr.  Amherst,  with  an  amount  of  consideration  not 
to  be  expected,  retires  to  rest  early.  The  others  fall  insen- 
sibly into  the  silent,  dozy  state.  Mr.  Darley  gives  way  to 
a  gentle  snore.  It  is  the  gentlest  thing  imaginable,  but 
'effectual.  Tedcastle  starts  to  his  feet  and  gives  the  fire  a 
vigorous  poke.  He  also  trips  very  successfully  over  the 
rootstool,  that  goes  far  to  make  poor  Darley's  slumbers 
blest,  and  brings  that  gentleman  into  a  sitting  posture. 

"  This  will  never  do/'  Luttrell  says,  when  he  has  apolo- 
.  gized  profusely  to   his   awakened  friend.     "We   are  all 
growing  sleepy.     Potts,  exert  your  energies  and  tell  us  a 
story." 

"  Yes,  do,  Plantagenet,"  says  Lady  Stafford,  rousing 
herself  resolutely,  and  shutting  up  her  fan  with  a  lively 
snap. 

"  I  will,"  says  Potts,  obligingly,  without  a  moment's 
hesitation. 

"Potts  is  always  equal  to  the  occasion,"  Sir  Penthoivy 
remarks,  admiringly.  "  As  a  penny  showman  he  would 
nave  been  invaluable  and  died  worth  any  money.  Such 
energy,  such  unflagging  zeal  is  rare.  That  pretty  gun- 
powder plot  he  showed  his  friends  the  other  night  would 
fetch  a  large  audience." 

"  Don't  ask  me  to  be  the  audience  a  second  time/'  Lady 
Stafford  says,  unkindly.  "  To  be  blown  to  bits  once  in  a 
lifetime  is,  I  consider,  quite  sufficient." 

"  'Well,  if  ever  I  do  a  ky-ind  action  again/*'  says  Mr. 
Potts, — who  is  brimful  of  odd  quotations,  chiefly  derived 
from  low  comedies, — posing  after  Toole.  "  It  is  the  most 
mistaken  thing  in  the  world  to  do  anything  for  anybody. 
You  never  know  where  it  will  end.  I  once  knew  a  fellow 
Jwho  saved  another  fellow  from  drowning,  and  hanged  if 
the  other  fellow  didn't  cling  CD  him  ever  after  and  make 
him  support  him  for  life." 

"  I'm  sure  that's  an  edifying  tala,  *'  says  Sir  Penthony, 
with  a  deep  show  of  interest.  "  But — stop  one  moment, 
Potts.  I  confess  I  can't  get  any  further  for  a  minute  or 
two.  How  many  fellows  were  there?  There  was  your 
fellow,  and  the  other  fellow,  and  the  other  fellow's  fellow ; 
was  that  three  fellows  or  four  ?  I  can't  make  it  out.  I 
apologize  all  round  for  my  stupidity,  but  would  you  say  it 
all  over  again,  Potts,  and  very  slowly  this  time,  please,  to 
see  if  I  can  grasp  it  j^ 


826  MOLLY  BAWN. 

"Give  yon  my  honor  I  thought  it  was  a  conundrum,* 
says  Henry  Darley. 

*Plantagenet  laughs  as  heartily  as  any  one,  and  evidently 
thinks  it  a  capital  joke. 

"  You  remind  me  of  no  one  so  much  as  Sothern,"  goes 
on  Sir  Penthony,  warming  to  his  theme.  "  If  you  went  on 
the  stage  you  would  make  your  fortune.  But  don't  dream 
of  acting,  you  know ;  go  in  for  being  yourself,  pure  and 
simple, — plain,  unvarnished  Plantagenet  Potts, — and  I  vent- 
ure to  sav  you  will  take  London  by  storm.  The  British  pub- 
lic would  go  down  before  you  like  corn  before  the  reaper." 

"Well,  but  your  story,  —  your  story,  Plantagenet," 
Lady  Stafford  cries,  impatiently. 

"  Did  you  hear  the  story  about  my  mother  and " 

"Potts,"  interrupts  Stafford,  mildly  but  firmly,  "if  yon 
are  going  to  tell  the  story  about  your  mother  and  the  auc- 
tioneer I  shall  leave  the  room.  It  will  be  the  twenty-fifth 
time  I  have  heard  it  already,  and  human  patience  has  a 
Umit.  One  must  draw  the  line  somewhere." 

"  What  auctioneer  ?  "  demands  Potts,  indignant.  "  I  am 
going  to  tell  them  about  my  mother  and  the  auction ;  I 
never  said  a  word  about  an  auctioneer  ;  there  mightn't  have 
been  one,  for  all  I  know." 

"  There  generally  is  at  an  auction/'  ventures  Luttrell, 
mildly.  "  Go  on,  Potts ;  I  like  your  stories  immensely, 
they  are  so  full  of  wit  and  spirit.  I  know  this  one,  about 
your  mother's  bonnet,  well ;  it  is  an  old  favorite, — quite  an 
heirloom — the  story,  I  mean,  not  the  bonnet.  I  remember 
So  distinctly  the  first  time  you  told  it  to  us  at  mess  :  how 
fre  did  laugh,  to  be  sure  !  Don't  forget  any  of  the  details. 
The  last  time  but  four  you  made  the  bonnet  pink,  and 
it  must  have  been  so  awfully  unbecoming  to  your  mother  ! 
Make  it  blue  to-night." 

"  Now  do  go  on,  Mr.  Potts  ;  I  am  dying  to  hear  all  about 
it,"  declares  Molly. 

"Well,  when  my  uncle  died,"  begins  Potts,  "all  his  fur- 
niture was  sold  by  auction.  And  there  was  a  mirror  in  the 
drawing-room  my  mother  had  always  had  a  tremendous 
fancy  for " 

"  '  And  my  mother  was  always  in  the  habit  of  wearing  a 
black  bonnet/  "  quotes  Sir  Penthony,  ffravelv.  "  I  know 
It  by  heart." 

"  If  you  do  you  may  as  well  tell  it  yourself/'  says  Potts, 
much  offended. 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  %$*( 

"  Never  mind  him,  Plantagenet ,  do  go  on,"  exclainu 
Cecil,  impatiently. 

"  Well,  she  was  in  the  habit  of  wearing  a  black  bonnet, 
as  it  happens,"  says  Mr.  Potts,  with  suppressed  ire  ;  "but 
just  before  the  auction  she  bought  a  new  one,  and  it  was 
pink." 

"Oh,  why  on  earth  don't  you  say  blue?"  expostulates 
Luttrell,  with  a  groan. 

' '  Because  it  was  pink.  I  suppose  I  know  my  mother's 
bonnet  better  than  you  ?  " 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  think  of  her  complexion  !  And 
at  first,  I  assure  you,  you  always  used  to  make  it  blue." 

"  I  differ  with  you/'  puts  in  Sir  Penthony,  politely.  "  I 
always  understood  it  was  a  sea-green." 

"  It  was  pink,"  reiterates  Plantagenet,  firmly.  "  Well, 
we  had  a  cook  who  was  very  fond  of  my  mother " 

"  I  thought  it  was  a  footman.  And  it  really  was  a  foot- 
man, you  know,"  says  Luttrell,  reproachfully. 

"The  butler,  you  mean,  Luttrell,"  exclaims  Sir  Pen^ 
thony,  with  exaggerated  astonishment  at  his  friend's  want 
of  memory. 

"  And  she,  having  most  unluckily  heard  my  mother  say 
she  feared  she  could  not  attend  the  auction,  made  up  her 
mind  to  go  herself  and  at  all  hazards  secure  the  coveted 
mirror  for  her " 

"And  she  didn't  know  my  mother  had  on  the  new  sea- 
green  bonnet/  "  Sir  Penthony  breaks  in,  with  growing  ex- 
citement. 

"  No,  she  didn't/'  says  Mr.  Potts,  growing  excited  too. 
"So  she  started  for  my  uncle's, — the  cook,  I  mean, — and 
as  soon  as  the  mirror  was  put  up  began  bidding  away  for  it 
like  a  steam-engine.  And  presently  some  one  in  a  pink 
bonnet  began  bidding  too,  and  there  they  were  bidding 
away  against  each  other,  the  cook  not  knowing  the  bonnet, 
and  my  mother  not  being  able  to  see  the  cook,  she  was  so 
hemmed  in  by  the  crowd,  until  presently  it  was  knocked 
down  to  my  mother. — who  is  a  sort  of  person  who  would 
die  rather  than  give  in, — and,  would  you  believe  it?" 
winds  up  Mr.  Potts,  nearly  choking  with  delight  over 
the  misfortunes  of  his  maternal  relative,  "  she  had  given 
exactly  five  pounds  more  for  that  mirror  than  she  need 
have  done ! 

They  all  laugh,  Sir  Penthony  and  Luttrell  with  a  verj 
suspicious  mirth. 


238  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Potts  ! "  says  Molly. 

"  Oh,  she  didn't  mind.     When  she  had  relieved  herself 

by  blowing  up  the  cook  she  laughed  more  than  any  of  us. 
But  it  was  a  long  time  before  the  '  governor '  could  be 
brought  to  see  the  joke.  You  know  he  paid  for  it,"  says 
Plantagenet,  naively. 

"Moral :  never  buy  a  new  bonnet,"  says  Sir  Penthony. 

"  Or  keep  an  affectionate  cook,"  says  Luttrell. 

"  Or  go  to  an  auction,"  says  Philip.  "It  is  a  very  in- 
structive tale  :  it  is  all  moral." 

"  The  reason  I  so  much  admire  it.  I  know  no  one  such 
an  adept  at  pointing  a  moral  and  adorning  a  tale  as  our 
Plantagenet." 

Mr.  Potts  smiles  superior. 

"  I  think  the  adornment  rested  with  you  and  Luttrell," 
he  says,  with  cutting  sarcasm,  answering  Sir  Penthony. 

"  Potts,  you  aren't  half  a  one.  Tell  us  another.  Your 
splendid  resources  can't  be  yet  exhausted,"  says  Philip. 

"  Yes,  do.  Potts,  and  wake  me  when  you  come  to  the 
point,"  seconds  Sir  Penthony,  warmly,  sinking  into  an 
arm-chair  and  gracefully  disposing  an  antimacassar  over 
his  head. 

"  A  capital  idea,"  murmurs  Luttrell.  "It  will  give  us 
all  a  hint  when  we  are  expected  to  laugh." 

"  Oh,  you  can  chaff  as  you  like,"  exclaims  Mr.  Potts, 
much  aggrieved  ;  "  but  I  wonder,  if  /  went  to  sleep  in  an 
arm-chair,  which  of  you  would  carry  on  the  conversation  ?  " 

"  Not  one  of  them,"  declares  Cecil,  with  conviction  : 
"  we  should  all  die  of  mere  inanition  were  it  not  for  you." 

"  I  really  think  they're  all  jealous  of  me,"  goes  on  Plan- 
tagenet, greatly  fortified.  "  I  consider  myself  by  far  the 
most  interesting  of  them  all,  and  the  most — er " 

"  Say  it,  Potts  ;  don't  be  shy,"  says  Sir  Penthony,  rais- 
ing a  corner  of  the  antimacassar,  so  as  to  give  his  friends 
the  full  encouragement  of  one  whole  eye.  "  '  Fascinating,' 
I  feel  sure,  will  be  the  right  word  in  the  right  place  here." 

"  It  would  indeed.  I  know  nobody  so  really  entertain- 
ing as  Plantagenet,"  says  Cecil,  warmly. 

"  Your  ladyship's  judgment  is  always  sound.  I  submit 
to  it,"  returns  Sir  Penthony,  rising  to  make  her  a  profound 
bow, 


MOLL  Y  1A  WN. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

"  '  Why  come  you  drest  like  a  Tillage  maid 

That  are  the  flower  of  the  earth?' 
'  If  I  come  drest  like  a  village  maid 
I  am  but  as  my  fortunes  .are.'  " — Lady 

IT  is  close  on  October.  Already  the  grass  has  assumed 
its  sober  garb  of  brown  ;  a  general  earthiness  is  everywhere. 
The  leaves  are  falling, — not  now  in  careful  coupies  or  one 
by  one,  but  in  whole  showers, — slowly,  sorrowfully,  as 
though  loath  to  quit  the  sighing  branches,  their  last  faint 
rustling  making  their  death-song. 

Molly's  visit  has  drawn  to  an  end.  Her  joyous  month  is 
over.  To-day  a  letter  from  her  brother  reminding  her  of 
her  promise  to  return  is  within  her  hand,  recalling  all  the 
tender  sweets  of  home  life,  all  the  calm  pleasure  she  will 
gain,  yet  bringing  with  it  a  little  sting,  as  she  remembers 
all  the  gay  and  laughing  hours  that  she  must  lose.  For 
Indeed  her  time  at  Herat  has  proved  a  good  time. 

"I  have  had  a  letter  from  my  brother,  grandpapa:  he 
thinks  it  is  time  I  should  return,"  she  says,  accosting  the 
old  man  as  he  takes  his  solitary  walk  up  and  down  one  of 
the  shaded  paths. 

"  Do  you  find  it  so  dull  here  ?"  asks  he,  sharply,  turn- 
ing to  read  her  face. 

"  Dull?  No,  indeed.  How  should  I?  I  shall  always 
remember  my  visit  to  you  as  one  of  the  happy  events  of  my 
life." 

"  Then  remain  a  little  longer, "  he  growls,  ungraciously, 
"  The  others  have  consented  to  prolong  their  stay ;  whj 
should  not  you  ?  Write  to  your — to  Mr.  Massereene  to 
that  effect.  I  cannot  breathe  in  an  empty  house.  It  is  my 
wish,  my  desire  that  you  shall  stay/*  he  finishes,  irritably, 
this  being  one  of  his  painful  days. 

So  it  is  settled.  She  will  obey  this  crabbed  veteran's 
behest  and  enjoy  a  little  more  of  the  good  the  gods  have 
provided  for  her  before  returning  to  her  quiet  home. 

"  You  will  not  desert  us  in  our  increased  calamities, 
Molly,  will  you  ?  "  asks  Cecil,  half  an  hour  later,  as  Molly 
enters  the  common  boudoir  where  Lady  Stafford  and  Marcia 
sit  alone,  the  men  being  absent  with  their  guns,  and  Mrs. 


230  MOLLY  EAWN. 

Darley  consequently  in  the  blues.  "  Where  have  you  been  ? 
We  quite  fancied  you  had  taken  a  lesson  out  of  poor  dear 
Maudie's  book  and  retired  to  your  couch.  Do  you  stay  on 
at  Herst  ?  "  She  glances  up  anxiously  from  her  painting 
as  she  speaks. 

"  Yes.  Grandpapa  has  asked  me  to  put  off  my  depart- 
ure for  a  while.  So  I  shall.  I  have  just  written  to  John 
to  say  so,  and  to  ask  him  if  I  may  accept  this  second  invi- 
tation." 

"  Do  you  think  it  likely  he  will  refuse  ? "  Marcia  asks, 
unpleasantly. 

"  He  may.  But  when  I  represent  to  him  how  terribly 
his  obduracy  will  distress  you  all,  should  he  insist  on  my 
return,  I  feel  sure  he  will  relent,"  retorts  Molly,  noncha- 
lantly. 

"  Now  that  Mr.  Amherst  has  induced  us  all  to  stay,  don't 
you  think  he  might  do  somathing  to  vary  the  entertain- 
ment?'7 says  Cecil,  in  a  faintly  injured  tone.  "  Shooting 
is  all  very  well,  of  course,  for  those  who  like  it ;  and  so  is 
tennis  ;  and  so  are  early  hours  ;  but  toujours  perdrix.  I 
confess  I  hate  my  bed  until  the  small  hours  are  upon  me. 
Now,  if  he  would  only  give  a  ball,  for  instance  !  Do  you 
think  he  would,  Marcia,  if  he  was  asked  ? " 

"  How  can  I  say  ?  " 

"  Would  you  ask  him,  dear  ?  " 

"Well,  I  don't  think  I  would,"  replies  Marcia,  with  a 
rather  forced  laugh  ;  "  for  this  reason,  that  it  would  not  be 
of  the  slightest  use.  I  might  as  well  ask  him  for  the  moon. 
If  there  is  one  thing  he  distinctly  abhors,  it  is  a  ball." 

"  But  he  might  go  to  bed  early,  if  he  wished,"  persists 
Cecil ;  "  none  of  us  would  interfere  or  find  fault  with  that 
arrangement.  We  would  try  and  spare  him,  dear  old  thing. 
I  don  t  see  why  our  enjoyment  should  put  him  out  in  the 
least,  if  he  would  only  be  reasonable.  I  declare  I  have  a 
great  mind  to  ask  him  myself." 

"Do,"  says  Molly,  eagerly,  who  is  struck  with  admira- 
tion at  the  entire  idea,  having  never  yet  been  to  a  really 
large  ball. 

'•  I  would  rather  somebody  else  tried  it  first,"  confesses 
Cecil,  with  a  frank  laugh."  "A  hundred  times  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  to  ask  a  favor  of  him,  but  when  I  found 
myself  face  to  face  with  him,  and  he  fixed  me  with  his 
eagle  eye,  I  quailed.  Molly,  you  are  a  new  importation ; 
try  your  luck," 


MOLL  F  BA  TT.Y.  231 

"Well,  I  don't  mind  if  I  do,"  says  Molly,  valiantly. 
"  He  can't  say  worse  than  'No/  And  here  he  is,  coming, 
slowly  along  under  the  balcony.  Shall  I  seize  the  present 
opportunity  and  storm  the  citadel  out  of  hand  ?  I  am  sure 
if  I  wait  I  shall  be  like  Bob  Acres  and  find  my  courage 
oozing  out  through  my  fingers/' 

"  Then  don't,"  says  Cecil.  "  If  he  molests  you  badly,  I 
promise  to  interfere." 

Molly  steps  on  to  the  balcony,  and,  looking  down,  awaits 
the  slow  and  languid  approach  of  her  grandfather.  Just 
as  he  arrives  beneath  her  she  bends  over  until  he,  attracted 
by  her  presence,  looks  up. 

She  is  laughing  down  upon  him,  bent  on  conquest,  and 
has  a  blood-red  rose  in  one  hand.  She  waves  it  slightly  to 
and  fro,  as  though  uncertain,  as  though  dallying  about  giving 
utterance  to  some  thought  that  pines  for  freedom. 

The  old  man,  pausing,  looks  up  at  her,  and,  looking, 
sighs, — perhaps  for  his  dead  youth,  perhaps  because  she  so 
much  resembles  her  mother,  disowned  and  forgotten. 

"  Have  a  rose,  grandpapa?"  says  Molly,  stooping  still 
farther  over  the  iron  railings,  her  voice  sweet  and  fresh  aa 
the  dead  and  gone  Eleanor's.  As  she  speaks  she  drops  the 
flower,  and  he  dexterously,  by  some  fortuitous  chance, 
catches  it. 

"  Well  done ! "  cries  she,  with  a  gay  laugh,  clapping 
her  hands,  feeling  half  surprised,  wholly  amused,  at  his 
nimbleness.  "  Yet  stay,  grandpapa,  do  not  go  so  soon.  I 
— have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"We  have  been  discussing  something  delightful  for  the 
past  five  minutes, — something  downright  delicious ;  but 
we  can  do  nothing  without  you.  Will  you  help  us,  grand- 
papa ?  will  you  ? "  She  asks  all  this  with  the  prettiest 
grace,  gazing  down  undaunted  into  the  sour  old  face  raised 
to  hers. 

"  Why  are  you  spokeswoman  ? "  demands  he,  in  a  tone 
that  makes  the  deeply  attentive  Cecil  within  groan  aloud. 

"  Well — because — I  really  don't  'believe  I  know  why, 
except  that  I  chose  to  be  so.  But  grant  me  this,  my  first 
request.  Ah  !  do,  now,  grandpapa." 

The  sweet  coaxing  of  the  Irish  "  Ah  ! "  penetrates  even 
this  withered  old  heart. 

"  What  is  this  wonderful  thing  you  would  have  me  do  ?" 
asks  he,  some  of  the  accumulated  verjuice  of  years  disap- 


232  MOLLY  SAWN. 

pearing  from  his  face  ;  while  Lady  Stafford,  from  behind 
the  curtain,  looks  on  trembling  with  fear  for  the  success 
of  her  scheme,  and  Marcia  listens  and  watches  with  envioua 
rage. 

"  We  want  you  to — give  a  ball,"  says  Molly,  boldly,  with 
a  little  gasp,  keeping  her  large  eyes  fixed  in  eager  anxiety 
upon  his  face,  while  her  pretty  parted  lips  seem  still  to  en« 
treat.  "  Say  'yes*  to  me,  grandpapa." 

How  to  refuse  so  tender  a  pleading?  How  bring  the 
blank  that  a  "No"  must  cause  upon  her  riante,  lovely 
face? 

*'  Suppose  I  say  I  cannot  ?  "  asks  he  ;  but  his  tone  has 
altered  wonderfully,  and  there  is  an  expression  that  is 
almost  amiable  upon  his  face.  The  utter  absence  of  con- 
straint, of  fear,  she  displays  in  his  presence  has  charmed 
him,  being  so  unlike  the  studied  manner  of  all  those  with 
whom  he  comes  in  contact. 

"  Then  I  shall  cry  my  eyes  out,"  says  Molly,  still  lightly, 
though  secretly  her  heart  is  sinking. 

There  is  a  perceptible  pause.  Then  Mr.  Amherst  says, 
slowly,  regretfully  : 

"  Crying  will  come  too  soon,  child.  None  escape.  Keep 
your  eyes  dry  as  long  as  your  heart  will  let  you.  No,  you 
shall  not  fret  because  of  me.  You  shall  have  your  ball,  I 
promise  you,  and  as  soon  as  ever  you  please." 

So  saying,  and  with  a  quick  movement  of  the  hand 
that  declines  all  thanks,  he  moves  away,  leaving  Molly  to 
return  to  the  boudoir  triumphant,  though  somewhat  struck 
and  saddened  by  his  words  and  manner. 

"Let  me  embrace  you,"  cries  Cecil,  tragically,  Ringing 
herself  into  her  arms.  "  Molly,  Molly,  you  are  a  siron  ! " 

Without  a  word  or  a  look,  Marcia  rises  slowly  and  quits 
the  room. 


The  invitations  are  issued,  and  unanimously  accepted. 
A  ball  at  Herst  is  such  a  novelty,  that  the  county  to  a  man 
declare  their  intention  of  being  present  at  it.  It  therefore 
promises  to  be  a  great  success. 

As  for  the  house  itself,  it  is  in  a  state  of  delicious  unrest. 
There  is  a  good  deal  of  noise,  but  very  little  performance, 
and  every  one  gives  voice  now  and  then  to  the  most  start- 
ling opinions.  One  might,  indeed,  imagine  that  all  these 
jaeople — who,  when  in  town  during  the  season,  yawn  BJ» 


MOLLY  BAWN.  238 

tematically  through  their  two  or  three  balls  of  a  night — had 
never  seen  one,  so  eager  and  anxious  are  they  for  the  suc- 
cess of  this  solitary  bit  of  dissipation. 

Lady  Stafford  is  in  great  form,  and  becomes  even  more 
debonnaire  and  saucy  than  is  her  wont.  Even  Marcia 
seems  to  take  some  interest  in  it,  and  lets  a  little  vein  of 
excitement  crop  up  here  and  there  through  all  the  frozen 
placidity  of  her  manner ;  while  Molly,  who  has  never  yet 
been  at  a  really  large  affair  of  the  kind,  loses  her  head  and 
finds  herself  unable  to  think  or  converse  on  any  other  sub- 
ject. 

Yet  in  all  this  beautiful  but  unhappy  world  where  is 
tike  pleasure  that  contains  no  sting  of  pain  ?  Molly's  is  a 
sharp  little  sting  that  pricks  her  constantly  and  brings  an 
uneasy  sigh  to  her  lips.  Perhaps  in  a  man's  eyes  the  cause 
would  be  considered  small,  but  surely  in  a  woman's  over- 
whelming. It  is  a  question  of  dress,  and  poor  Molly's  mind 
is  much  exercised  thereon. 

When  all  the  others  sit  and  talk  complacently  of  their 
silks  and  satins,  floating  tulles  and  laces,  she,  with  a  pang, 
remembers  that  all  she  has  to  wear  is  a  plain  white  muslin. 
It  is  hard.  No  doubt  she  will  look  pretty — perhaps  prettier 
and  fairer  than  most — in  the  despised  muslin  ;  but  as  surely 
she  will  look  poorly  attired,  and  the  thought  is  not  inspir- 
ing. 

No  one  but  a  woman  can  know  what  a  woman  thinks  on 
such  a  subject  ;  and  although  she  faces  the  situation  philo- 
sophically enough,  and  by  no  means  despises  herself  for  the 
pangs  of  envy  she  endures  when  listening  to  Maud  Barley's 
account  of  the  triumph  in  robes  to  be  sent  by  Worth  for 
the  Herst  ball,  she  still  shrinks  from  the  cross-examination 
she  will  surely  have  to  undergo  at  the  hands  of  Cecil  Staf- 
ford as  to  her  costume  for  the  coming  event. 

One  day,  a  fortnight  before  the  ball,  Cecil  does  seize  on 
her,  and,  carrying  her  off  to  her  own  room  and  placing  her 
in  her  favorite  chair,  says,  abruptly  : 

"  What  about  your  dress,  Molly  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  there  is  anything  to  say  about  it," 
says  Molly,  who  is  in  low  spirits.  "  The  only  thing  I  have 
is  a  new  white  muslin,  and  that  will  scarcely  astonish  the 
natives." 

"  Muslin  !  Oh,  Molly  !  Not  but  that  it  is  pretty  al- 
ways,— I  know  nothing  more  so, — but  for  a  ball-dress — 
terribly  rococo.  I  have  set  my  heart  on  seeing  you  resplen- 


284  MOLi.  y  £A  Wtf. 

dent ;  and  if  you  are  not  more  gorgeous  than  Marcia  I  shall 
break  down.  Muslin  won't  do  at  all/* 

"But  I'm  afraid  it  must." 

"  What  a  pity  it  is  I  am  so  much  shorter  than  you  !  * 
says  Cecil,  regretfully.  "Now,  if  I  was  taller  we  might 
make  one  of  my  dresses  suit  you/' 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  pity, — a  dreadful  pity,"  says  Molly,  mourn- 
fully. "  I  should  like  to  be  really  well  dressed.  Marcia,  1 
suppose,  will  be  in  satin,  or  something  else  equally  desir- 
able/' 

"  No  doubt  she  will  deck  herself  out  in  Oriental  splendor, 
if  she  discovers  you  can't/'  says  Cecil,  angrily. 

There  is  a  pause, — a  decided  one.  Cecil  sits  frowning 
and  staring  at  Molly,  who  has  sunk  into  an  attitude  ex- 
pressive of  the  deepest  dejection.  The  little  ormolu  clock, 
regardless  of  emotion,  ticks  on  undisturbed  until  three  fuli 
minutes  vanish  into  the  past.  Then  Cecil,  as  though  sud- 
denly inspired,  says,  eagerly : 

"Molly,  why  not  ask  your  grandfather  to  give  you  a 
dress  ?  " 

"  Not  for  all  the  world  !  Nothing  would  induce  me.  li 
I  never  was  to  see  a  ball  I  would  not  ask  him  for  sixpence. 
How  could  you  think  it  of  me,  Cecil  ?  " 

"  "Why  didn't  I  think  of  it  long  ago,  you  mean  ?  I  only 
wish  he  was  my  grandfather,  and  I  would  never  cease  perse- 
cuting him,  morning,  noon,  and  night.  What  is  the  use 
of  a  grandfather  if  it  isn't  to  tip  one  every  now  and  then  ?  " 

"  You  forget  the  circumstances  of  my  case." 

"  I  do  not  indeed.  Of  course,  beyond  all  doubt,  he  be- 
haved badly  ;  still I  really  think,  says  Cecil,  in  a  highly 

moralizing  tone,  "there  is  nothing  on  earth  so  mistaken  as 
pride.  I  am  free  from  it.  I  don't  know  the  meaning  of 
it,  and  I  know  I  am  all  the  happier  in  consequence." 

"Perhaps  I  am  more  angry  than  proud." 

"It  is  the  same  thing,  and  I  wish  you  weren't.  Oh, 
Molly  !  do  ask  him.  What  can  it  signify  what  he  thinks  ?" 

"  Nothing  ;  but  a  great  deal  what  John  thinks.  It  would 
be  casting  a  slight  upon  him,  as  though  he  stinted  me  in 
clothes  or  money,  and  I  will  not  do  it." 

"  It  would  be  such  a  simple  way,"  says  Cecil,  with  a 
melancholy  sigh, — dear  Molly  is  so  obstinate  and  old-fash- 
ioned ;  then  follows  another  pause,  longer  and  more  decided 
than  the  last.  Molly,  with  her  back  turned  to  her  friend, 
commences  such  a  dismal  tattoo  upon  the  window-pane  as 


MOLL  y  ~BA  W2f.  288 

would  be  sufficient  to  depress  any  one  without  further  causa. 
Her  friend  is  pondering  deeply. 

"  Molly,"  she  says,  presently,  with  a  fine  amount  of  in- 
difference in  her  tone, — rather  suspicious,  to  say  the  least 
of  it, — "  I  feel  sure  you  are  right, — quite  right.  I  like  you 
all  the  better  for — your  pride,  or  whatever  you  may  wish 
to  call  it.  But  what  a  pity  it  is  your  grandfather  would 
not  offer  you  a  dress  or  a  check  to  buy  it  I  I  suppose" — t 
qmietly — "  if  he  did,  you  would  take  it  ?" 

"  \V  hat  a  chance  there  is  of  that ! "  says  Molly,  still  gloomy. 
"  Yes,  if  he  offered  it  I  do  not  think  I  could  bring  myself 
to  refuse  it.  I  am  not  adamant.  You  see  "  — with  a  faint 
laugh — "  my  pride  would  not  carry  me  very  far." 

"Far  enough.  Let  us  go  down  to  the  others,"  says 
Cecil,  rising  and  yawning  slightly.  "  They  will  think  we 
are  planning  high  treason  if  we  absent  ourselves  any 
Conger. " 

Together  they  go  down-stairs  and  into  the  drawing-room, 
which  they  find  empty. 

As  they  reach  the  centre  of  it,  Cecil  stops  abruptly,  and, 
saying  carelessly,  "  I  will  be  back  in  one  moment/'  turn* 
and  leaves  the  room. 

The  apartment  is  deserted.  No  sound  penetrates  to  it. 
Even  the  very  fire,  in  a  fit  of  pique,  has  degenerated  into  & 
dull  glow. 

Molly,  with  a  shiver,  rouses  it,  throws  on  a  fresh  log,  and 
amuses  herself  trying  to  induce  the  tardy  flames  to  climb 
and  lick  it  until  Lady  Stafford  returns.  So  busy  has  she 
been,  it  seems  to  her  as  though  only  a  minute  has  elapsed 
since  her  departure. 

"This  does  look  cozy,"  Cecil  says,  easily  sinking  into  a 
lounging-chair.  "Now,  if  those  tiresome  men  had  not 
gone  shooting  we  should  not  be  able  to  cuddle  into  our  fire 
as  we  are  doing  at  present.  After  all,  it  is  a  positive  relief 
to  get  them  out  of  the  way, — sometimes." 

"  You  don't  seem  very  hearty  about  that  sentiment." 

"  I  am,  for  all  that.  With  a  good  novel  I  would  now  be 
utterly  content  for  an  hour  or  two.  By  the  bye,  I  left  my 
book  on  the  library  table.  If  you  were  good-natured, 
Molly,  I  know  what  you  would  do." 

"  So  do  I :  I  would  get  it  for  you.  Well,  taking  intc 
consideration  all  things,  your  age  and  growing  infirmities 
among  them,  I  will  accept  your  hint.  And,  rising,  she 
goes  in  search  of  the  missing  volume. 

«.V  ^fcw- 


gg{  MVLL  Y  SA 

Opening  the  library  door  with  a  little  bang  and  a  good 
deal  of  reckless  unconsciousness,  she  finds  herself  in  Mr. 
Amherst's  presence. 

"  Oh  ! "  cries  she,  with  a  surprised  start.  "  I  beg  your  par- 
don, grandpapa.  If" — pausing  on  the  threshold — "  I  had 
known  you  were  here,  I  would  not  have  disturbed  you." 

"You  don't  disturb  me/'  replies  he,  without  looking 
up  ;  and,  picking  up  the  required  book,  Molly  commences 
a  nasty  retreat. 

But  just  as  she  gains  the  door  her  grandfather's  voice 
once  more  arrests  her. 

"  Wait/'  he  says  ;  "I want  to  ask  you  a  question  that — - 
that  has  been  on  my  mind  for  a  considerable  time." 

To  the  commonest  observer  it  would  occur  that  from 
the  break  to  the  finish  of  this  little  sentence  is  one  clumsy 
invention. 

"Yes? "says  Molly. 

"  Have  you  a  dress  for  this  ball, — this  senseless  rout  that' 
is  coming  off  ?"  says  Mr.  Amherst,  without  looking  at  her.. 

"  Yes,  grandpapa."    In  a  tone  a  degree  harder. 

"You  are  my  granddaughter.  I  desire  to  see  you 
dressed  as  such.  Is" — with  an  effort — "your  gown  a 
handsome  one  ?  " 

•  "  Well,  that  greatly  depends  upon  taste,"  returns  Molly, 
who,  though  angry,  finds  a  grim  amusement  in  watching 
the  flounderings  of  this  tactless  old  person.  "  If  we  are  to 
believe  that  beauty  unadorned  is  adorned  the  most,  I  may 
certainly  flatter  myself  I  shall  be  the  best  dressed  woman 
in  the  room.  But  there  may  be  some  who  will  not  call 
white  muslin  *  handsome/  >: 

"White  muslin  up  to  sixteen  is  very  charming,"  Mr. 
Amherst  says,  in  a  slow  tone  of  a  connoisseur  in  such  mat- 
ters, "  but  not  beyond.  And  you  are,  I  think " 

"  Nineteen." 

"  Quite  so.  Then  in  your  case  I  should  condemn  the 
muslin.  You  will  permit  me  to  give  you  a  dress,  Eleanor, 
more  in  accordance  with  your  age  and  position." 

"  Thank  you  very  much,  grandpapa,"  says  Molly,  with 
a  little  ominous  gleam  in  her  blue  eyes.  "You  are  too 
good.  I  am  deeply  sensible  of  all  your  kindness,  but  I 
really  cannot  see  how  my  position  has  altered  of  late.  As 
you  have  just  discovered,  I  am  now  nineteen,  and  for  so 
many  years  I  have  managed  to  look  extremely  well  in  white 
muslin," 


JfOLL  Y  BA  Wtf.  337 

As  she  finishes  her  modest  speech  she  feels  she  has  gone 
too  far.  She  has  been  almost  impertinent,  considering  hia 
age  and  relationship  to  her ;  nay,  more,  she  has  been  un- 
generous. 

Her  small  taunt  has  gone  home.  Mr.  Amherst  rises 
from  his  chair  ;  the  dull  red  of  old  age  comes  painfully 
into  his  withered  cheeks  as  he  stands  gazing  at  her,  slight, 
erect,  with  her  proud  little  head  upheld  so  haughtily. 

For  a  moment  anger  masters  him ;  then  it  fades,  and 
something  as  near  remorse  as  his  heart  can  hold  replaces  it. 

Molly,  returning  his  glance  with  interest,  knows  he  i* 
annoyed.  But  she  does  not  know  that,  standing  as  she 
now  does,  with  uplifted  chin  and  gleaming  eyes,  and  just 
a  slight  in-drawing  of  her  lips,  she  is  the  very  image  of 
the  dead-and-gone  Eleanor,  that,  in  spite  of  her  Irish 
father,  her  Irish  name,  she  is  a  living,  breathing,  defiant 
Amherst. 

In  silence  that  troubles  her  she  waits  for  the  next  word. 
It  comes  slowly,  almost  entreatingly. 

"  Molly,"  says  her  grandfather,  in  a  tone  that  trembles 
ever  so  little, — it  is  the  first  time  he  has  ever  called  her  by 
Jier  pet  name, — "  Molly,  I  shall  take  it  as  a  great  favor  if 
you  will  accede  to  my  request  and  accept — this/' 

As  he  finishes  he  holds  out  to  her  a  check,  regarding  her 
earnestly  the  while. 

The  "  Molly  "  has  done  it.  Too  generous  even  to  hesi- 
tate, she  takes  the  paper,  and,  going  closer  to  him,  lays  her 
hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  I  have  been  rude,  grandpapa, — I  beg  your  pardon, — 
and  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  this  money. " 

So  saying,  she  bends  and  presses  her  soft  sweet  lips  to 
his  cheek.  He  makes  no  effort  to  return  the  caress,  but 
long  after  she  leaves  the  room  sits  staring  vaguely  before 
him  out  of  the  dreary  window  on  to  the  still  more  dreary 
landscape  outside,  thinking  of  vanished  days  and  haunting 
actions  that  will  not  be  laid,  but  carry  with  them  their  sure 
and  keen  revenge,  in  the  knowledge  that  to  the  dead  no  ill 
can  be  undone. 

Molly,  going  back  to  the  drawing-room,  finds  Cecil  there, 
serene  as  usual. 

"Well,  and  where  is  my  book?"  asks  that  innocent 
"  I  thought  you  were  never  coming." 

"  Cecil,  why  did  you  tell  grandpapa  to  offer  me  a  drew  f  * 
demands  Molly,  abruptly. 


£38  MOLL  r  BA  Wtf 

"  My  dearest  girl  ! *  exclaims  Cecil,  and  fean.  lias 

fche  grace  to  stop  and  blush  a  little. 

"  You  did.     There  is  no  use  your  denying  it." 

"  You  didn't  refuse  it  ?  Oh,  Molly,  after  -all  my 
trouble  ! " 

"  No," — laughing,  and  unfolding  her  palm,  where  the 
paper  lies  crushed, — "but  I  was  very  near  it.  But  that 
his  manner  was  so  kind,  so  marvelously  gentle,  for  him,  I 
should  have  done  so.  Cecil,  I  couldn't  help  thinking  that 
perhaps  long  ago,  before  the  world  hardened  him,  grand- 
papa was  a  nice  young  man." 

"  Perhaps  he  was,  my  dear, — there  is  no  knowing  what 
any  of  us  may  come  to, — though  you  must  excuse  me  if  I 
say  I  rather  doubt  it.  Well,  and  what  did  he  say  ?  " 

"Very  little,  indeed;  and 'that  little  a  failure.  When 
going  about  it  you  might  have  given  him  a  few  lessons  in 
his  rdle.  So  bungling  a  performance  as  the  leading  up  to 
ft  I  never  witnessed  ;  and  when  he  wound  up  by  handing 
me  a  check  ready  prepared  beside  him  on  the  desk  I  very 
nearly  laughed." 

"Old  goose!  Never  mind;  'they  laugh  who  win.'  I 
have  won." 

"So  you  have." 

"Well,  but  look,  Molly,  look.  I  want  to  see  how  far 
his  unwonted  '  gentleness  '  has  carried  him.  I  am  dying 
of  curiosity.  I  do  hope  he  has  not  been  shabby." 

Unfolding  the  paper,  they  find  the  check  has  been  drawn 
for  a  hundred  pounds. 

"  Very  good,"  says  Cecil,  with  a  relieved  sigh.  "  He  is 
oot  such  a  bad  old  thing,  when  all  is  told." 

"  It  is  too  much,"  says  Molly,  aghast.  "  I  can't  take  it, 
indeed.  I  would  have  thought  twenty  pounds  a  great  deal, 
but  a  hundred  pounds  !  I  must  take  it  back  to  him." 

"Are  you  mad,"  exclaims  Cecil,  "to  insult  him  ?  He 
thinks  nothing  of  a  hundred  pounds.  And  to  give  back 
money, — that  scarce  commodity, — how  could  you  bring 
yourself  to  do  it  ? "  In  tones  of  the  liveliest  reproach. 
"  Be  reasonable,  dear,  and  let  us  see  how  we  can  spend  it 
fast  enough." 

Thus  adjured,  Molly  succumbs,  and,  sinking  into  a  chair, 
is  soon  deep  in  the  unfathomable  mysteries  of  silks  and 
wtins,  tulle  and  flowers. 

"  And,  Oeoil,  I  should  like  to  buy  Letitia  a  silk  drees  like 
that  one  of  yours  up-stairs  I  admire  so  much." 


MOLLY  BAWlf.  23? 

"  The  navy  blue  ?  " 

"  No,  the  olive-green  ;  it  would  just  suit  her.  She  has 
a  lovely  complexion,  clear  and  tinted,  like  your  own." 

"  Thank  you,  dear.  It  is  to  be  regretted  you  are  of  the 
weaker  sex.  So  delicately  veiled  a  compliment  would  not 
have  disgraced  a  Chesterfield." 

"  Was  it  too  glaring  ?  Well,  I  will  do  away  with  it.  I 
was  thinking  entirely  of  Letty.  I  was  comparing  her  skin 
very  favorably  with  yours.  That  reminds  me  I  must  write 
home  to-day.  I  hope  John  won't  be  offended  with  me 
about  this  money.  Though,  after  all,  there  can't  be  much 
harm  in  accepting  a  present  from  one's  grandfather." 

"I  should  think  not,  indeed.  I  only  wish  I  had  a 
grandfather,  and  wouldn't  I  utilize  him  !  But  I  am  an 
unfortunate, — alone  in  the  world." 

Even  as  she  speaks,  the  door  in  the  next  drawing-room 
opens,  and  through  the  folding-doors,  which  stand  apart, 
she  sees  her  husband  enter,  and  make  his  way  to  a  daven- 
port. 

"  That  destroys  your  argument,"  says  Molly,  with  a  low 
laugh,  as  she  runs  away  to  her  own  room  to  write  her 
letters. 

For  a  few  minutes  Cecil  sits  silently  enjoying  a  distant 
view  of  her  husband's  back.  But  she  is  far  too  much  of  a 
coquette  to  let  him  long  remain  in  ignorance  of  her  near 
proximity.  Going  softly  up  to  him,  and  leaning  lightly 
over  his  shoulder,  she  says,  in  a  half-whisper,  "  What  are 
you  doing  ?  " 

He  starts  a  little,  not  having  expected  to  see  so  fair  an 
apparition,  and  lays  one  of  his  hands  over  hers  as  it  rests 
upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Is  it  you  ?"  he  says.     "  I  did  not  hear  you  coming." 

"  No  ?  That  was  "because  I  was  farthest  from  your 
thoughts.  You  are  writing?  To  whom  ?" 

"  My  tailor,  for  one.  It  is  a  sad  but  certain  fact  that, 
sooner  or  later,  one's  tailor  must  be  paid." 

"So  must  one's  modiste."  With  a  sigh.  "It  is  that 
sort  of  person  who  spoils  one's  life." 

"  Is  your  life  spoiled  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  in  many  ways." 

"Poor  little  soul ! "  says  he,  with  a  half  laugh,  tighten- 
ing his  fingers  over  hers.  "Is  your  dressmaker  hard- 
hearted ?" 

"  Don't  get  me  to  begin  on  that  subject,  or  I  shall  never 


340  MOLL  V  BA  WN. 

leave  off.     The  wrongs  I  have  suffered  at  that  woman's 
hands  !     But  then  why  talk  of  what  cannot  be  helped  F  " 

"  Perhaps  it  may.     Can  I  do  nothing  for  you  ? 

"I  am  afraid  not."  Moving  a  little  away  from  him. 
"And  yet,  perhaps,  if  you  choose,  you  might.  You  are 
writing ;  I  wish " — throwing  down  her  eyes,  as  though 
confused  (which  she  isn't),  and  assuming  her  most  guileless 
air — "you  would  write  something  for  me." 

"What  a  simple  request  !     Of  course  I  will — anything.' 

"  Really  ?     You  promise  ?  " 

"Faithfully." 

"  It  is  not,  perhaps,  quite  so  simple  a  request  as  it  ap- 
pears. I  want  you,  in  fact,  to — write  me — a  check  ! " 

Sir  Penthony  laughs,  and  covers  the  white  and  heavily- 
jeweled  little  hand  that  glitters  before  him  on  the  table 
once  more  with  his  own. 

"  For  how  much  ?  "   he  asks. 

"  Not  much, — only  fifty  pounds.  I  want  to  buy  some- 
thing particular  for  this  ball  :  and  " — glancing  at  him — 
"  being  a  lone  woman,  without  a  protector,  I  dread  going 
too  heavily  into  debt." 

"Good  child,"  says  Sir  Penthony.  "You  shall  have 
your  check. "  Drawing  the  book  toward  him  as  it  lies  be- 
fore him  on  the  davenport,  he  fills  up  a  check  and  hands 
it  to  her. 

"  Now,  what  will  you  gi^  me  for  it  ?  "  asks  he,  holding 
the  edge  near  him  as  her  fingers  close  upon  the  other  end. 

"What  have  1  to  give?  Have  I  not  just  acknowledged 
myself  insolvent  ?  I  am  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse." 

"  You  disparage  yourself.  I  think  you  as  rich  as  Croe- 
sus. Will  you — give  me  a  kiss  ?"  whisperg  her  husband, 
softly. 

There  is  a  decided  pause.  Dropping  the  check  and  col- 
oring deeply,  Cecil  moves  back^a  step  or  two.  She  betrays 
a  little  indignation  in  her  glance, — a  very  little,  but  quit« 
perceptible.  Stafford  sees  it. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  says,  hastily,  an  expression  of 
mingled  pain  and  shame  crossing  his  face.  "  I  was  wrong, 
of  course.  I  will  not  buy  your  kisses.  Here,  take  this  bit 
of  paper,  and — forgive  me." 

He  closes  her  somewhat  reluctant  fingers  over  the  check. 
She  is  still  blushing,  and  has  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground, 
but  her  faint  anger  has  disappeared.  Then  some  thought 
— evidently  a  merry  one — occurs  to  her;  the  comers  of 


MOLLY  BAWN.  241 

her  mouth  widen,  and  finally  she  breaks  into  a  musical 
laugh. 

"  Thank  you — very  much,"  she  says.  "  You  are  very 
good.  It  is  something  to  have  a  husband,  after  all.  And 
— if  you  would  really  care  for  it — I — don't  mind  letting 
you  have  one Oh  !  here  is  somebody  coming." 

"  There  always  is  somebody  coming  when  least  wanted," 
exclaims  Sir  Penthony,  wrathfully,  pushing  back  his  chair 
with  much  suppressed  ire,  as  the  door  opens  to  admit  Mr. 
Potts. 

"  '  I  hope  I  don't  intrude/  "  says  Potts,  putting  his  com- 
fortable face  and  rosy  head  round  the  door;  "but  I've  got 
an  idea,  and  I  must  divulge  it  or  burst.  You  wouldn't  like 
me  to  burst,  would  you  ?  "  This  to  Lady  Stafford,  pathetic- 
ally. 

"I  would  not, — here,"  replies  she,  with  decision. 

"For  fear  you  might,  I  shall  take  my  departure,"  says 
Sir  Penthony,  who  has  not  yet  quite  recovered  either  his 
disappointment  or  his  temper,  walking  through  the  conser- 
vatory into  the  grounds  beyond. 

"  I  really  wish,  Plantagenet,"  says  Lady  Stafford,  turn- 
ing upon  the  bewildered  Potts  with  most  unaccountable  se- 
verity, ' '  you  could  manage  to  employ  your  time  in  some 
useful  way.  The  dreadful  manner  in  which  you  spend  your 
days,  wandering  round  the  house  without  aim  or  reason, 
causes  me  absolute  regret.  Do  give  yourself  the  habit  of 
reading  or — or  doing  something  to  improve  your  mind, 
whenever  you  have  a  spare  moment." 

So  saying,  she  sweeps  past  him  out  of  the  room,  without 
•aven  making  an  inquiry  about  that  priceless  idea,  leaving 
poor  Potts  rooted  to  the  ground,  striving  wildly,  but  vainly, 
to  convict  himself  of  some  unpardonable  offense. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

"Love,  thou  art  bitter." — ELAINE. 

MR.  AMHERST,  having  in  a  weak  moment  given  his  con* 
sent  to  the  ball,  repays  himself  by  being  as  unamiable  after- 
ward as  he  can  well  manage. 

"  You  can  have  your  music  and  the  supper  from  London, 


343  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

if  you  wish  it,"  lie  says  to  Marcia,  one  day,  when  he  has  in- 
veighed against  the  whole  proceeding  in  language  that  bor- 
ders on  the  abusive  ;  "  but  if  you  think  I  am  going  to  have 
an  army  of  decorators  down  here,  turning  the  house  into  a 
fancy  bazar,  and  making  one  feel  a  stranger  in  one's  own 
rooms,  you  are  very  much  mistaken." 

"I  think  you  are  right,  dear,"  Marcia  answers,  with  her 
customary  meekness  :  "  people  of  that  kind  are  always  more 
trouble  than  anything  else.  And  no  doubt  we  shall  be  able 
to  do  all  that  is  necessary  quite  as  well  ourselves." 

"As  to  that  you  can,  of  course,  please  yourself. 
Though  why  you  cannot  dance  without  filling  the  rooms 
with  earwigs  and  dying  flowers  I  can't  conceive." 

Mr.  Amherst's  word  being  like  the  law  of  the  Modes 
and  Persians,  that  altereth  not,  no  one  disputes  it.  They 
couple  a  few  opprobrious  epithets  with  his  name  just  at 
first,  but  finally,  putting  on  an  air  of  resolution,  declare 
themselves  determined  and  ready  to  outdo  any  decorators 
in  the  kingdom. 

"  We  shall  wake  up  in  the  morning  after  the  ball  to  find 
ourselves  famous/'  says  Lady  Stafford.  "  The  county  will 
ring  with  our  praises.  But  we  must  have  help  :  we  cannot 
depend  upon  broken  reeds."  With  a  reproachful  glance  at 
Sir  Penthony,  who  is  looking  the  picture  of  laziness. 
"  Talbot  Lowry,  of  course,  will  assist  us ;  he  goes  without 
saying." 

"I  hope  he  will  come  without  saying,"  puts  in  Sir  Pen- 
thony ;  "  it  would  be  much  more  to  the  purpose.  Any 
smart  young  tradesmen  among  your  fellows,  Mottie  ?  " 

"Unless  Grainger.  You  know  Grainger,  Lady  Staf- 
ford?" 

"  Indeed  I  do.  What !  is  he  stationed  with  you  now  ? 
He  must  have  re-joined  very  lately." 

"  Only  the  other  day.    Would  he  be  of  any  use  to  you  ?  " 

"The  very  greatest." 

"  What !  Spooney  ?  "  says  Tedcastle,  laughing.  "  I  don't 
believe  he  could  climb  a  ladder  to  save  his  life.  Think  of 
Ms  pretty  hands  and  his  sweet  little  feet." 

'  And  his  lisp, — and  his  new  eyeglass,"  says  Stafford. 
' Never  mind;  I  will  have  him  here,"  declares  Cecil, 
gayly.     "In  spite  of  all  you  say,  I  positively  adore  that 
Grainger  boy." 

"You  seem  to  have  a  passion  for  fools,"  say«  Sir  Pen- 
thony,  a  little  bitterly,  feeling  some  anger  toward  uc.. 


'MOLL  V  &A 

"  ^  id  you  seem  to  hare  a  talent  for  incivility,"  retorti 

she,  rather  nettled.     This  ends  the  conversation. 

Nevertheless  Mr.  Grainger  is  asked  to  come  and  give 
what  assistance  he  can  toward  adorning  Herst,  which,  when 
they  take  into  consideration  the  ladylike  whiteness  of  his 
hands  and  the  general  imbecility  of  his  countenance^  is  not 
set  at  a  very  high  value. 

He  is  a  tall,  lanky  youth,  with  more  than  the  usual  allow- 
ance of  bone,  but  rather  less  of  intellect ;  he  is,  however, 
full  of  ambition  and  smiles,  and  is  amiability  itself  all  round. 
He  is  also  desperately  addicted  to  Lady  Stafford.  He  haa 
a  dear  little  moustache,  that  undergoes  much  encourage- 
ment from  his  thumb  and  first  finger,  and  he  has  a  capti- 
vating way  of  saying  "How  charming!"  or,  "Very 
sweet,"  to  anything  that  pleases  him.  And,  as  most  things 
seem  to  meet  his  approbation,  he  makes  these  two  brilliant 
remarks  with  startling  frequency. 

To  Cecil  he  is  a  joy.  In  him  she  evidently  finds  a  fund 
of  amusement,  as,  during  the  three  days  it  takes  them  to 
convert  the  ball-room,  tea-room,  etc.,  into  perfumed  bowers, 
she  devotes  herself  exclusively  to  his  society. 

Perhaps  the  undisguised  chagrin  of  Sir  Penthony  and 
Talbot  Lowry  as  they  witness  her  civility  to  Grainger  goes 
;Ear  to  add  a  zest  to  her  enjoyment  of  that  young  man's  ex- 
ceedingly small  talk. 

After  dinner  on  the  third  day  all  is  nearly  completed. 
A  few  more  leaves,  a  few  more  flowers,  a  wreath  or  two  to 
be  distributed  here  and  there,  is  all  that  remains  to  be 
done. 

"I  hate  decorating  in  October/'  Cecil  says.  '•  There  is 
such  a  dearth  of  flowers,  and  the  gardeners  get  so  greedy 
about  the  house  plants.  Every  blossom  looks  as  if  it  had' 
been  made  the  most  of." 

"Well,  I  don't  know/' replies  Mr.  Grainger,  squeezing 
his  glass  into  his  eye  with  much  difficulty,  it  being  a  new 
importation  and  hard  to  manage.  "When  he  has  altered  all 
his  face  into  an  appalling  grin,  and  completely  blocked  the 
sight  of  one  eye,  he  goes  on  affably  :  "  I  think  all  this — er 
— very  charming." 

"No?  Do  you?  I'm  so  glad.  Do  you  know  I  believe 
you  have  wonderful  taste  ?  The  way  in  which  you  tied 
that  last  bunch  of  trailing  ivy  had  something  about  it 
absolutely  artistic." 

'*  If  it  hadn't  fallen  to  pieces  directly  afterward,  which 


244  MOLLY  BAWtf. 

/ntfier  spoiled  the  effect/'  says  Sir  Penthony,  with  an  un- 
kind smile. 

' '  Did  it  ?  How  sad  !  But  then  the  idea  remains,  and 
that  is  everything.  Now,  Mr.  Grainger,  please  stand  here 
— (will  you  move  a  little  bit,  Sir  Penthony  ?  Thanks) — 
just  here — while  I  go  up  this  ladder  to  satisfy  myself  about 
these  flowers.  By  the  bye," — pausing  on  one  of  the  rungs 
to  look  back, — "  suppose  I  were  to  fall  ?  Do  you  think 
you  could  catch  me  ? " 

"  I  only  wish  you  would  give  me  the  opportunity  of  try- 
ing," replies  he,  weakly. 

"Beastly  puppy!"  mutters  Sir  Penthony,  under  his 
breath. 

"  Perhaps  I  shall,  if  you  are  good.  Now  look.  Are 
they  straight  ?  Do  they  look  well?"  asks  Cecil. 

"  Very  sweet,"  replies  Mr.  Grainger. 

"  Potts,  hand  me  up  some  nails,"  exclaims  Lowry,  im- 
patiently, who  is  on  another  ladder  close  by,  and  has  been 
an  attentive  and  disgusted  listener  ;  addressing  Potts,  who 
stands  lost  in  contemplation  of  Grainger.  "  Look  sharp, 
ean't  you  ?  And  tell  me  what  you  think  of  this."  Pointing 
TO  his  design  on  the  wall.  "Is  it  'all  your  fancy  painted 
..t?'  Is  it  ' lovely'  and  'divine?'  Answer." 

"Very  sour,  I  think,"  returns  Mr.  Potts,  hitting  off 
Grainger's  voice  to  a  nicety,  while  maintaining  a  counte- 
nance sufficiently  innocent  to  border  on  the  imbecile. 

Both  Sir  Penthony  and  Lowry  laugh  immoderately, 
while  Cecil  turns  away  to  hide  the  smile  that  may  be- 
tray her.  Grainger  himself  is  the  only  one  wholly  uncon- 
scious of  any  joke.  He  smiles,  indeed,  genially,  be- 
cause they  smile,  and  happily  refrains  from  inquiry  of  any 
sort. 

Meantime  in  the  tea-room — that  opens  off  the  supper- 
room,  where  the  others  are  engaged — Molly  and  Philip  are 
busy  arranging  bouquets  chosen  from  among  a  basketful  of 
flowers  that  has  just  been  brought  in  by  one  of  the  under- 
gardeners. 

Philip  is  on  his  knees, — almost  at  Molly's  feet, — while 
she  bends  over  him  searching  for  the  choicest  buds. 

"What  a  lovely  ring!"  says  Philip,  presently,  staying 
in  his  task  to  take  her  hand  and  examine  the  diamond  that 
glitters  on  it.  "  Was  it  a  present  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  Where  could  such  a  '  beggar-maid '  as  I 
am  get  money  enough  to  buy  such  a  ring  ?  "" 


MOLLY  SAWN,  245 

"  "Will  yon  think  me  rude  if  I  ask  you  the  every-day 
name  of  your  King  Cophetua  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  King  Cophetua." 

"  Then  tell  me  where  you  got  it  ?  " 

"  What  a  question  ! "  Lightly.  "  Perhaps  from  my 
own  true  love.  Perhaps  it  is  the  little  fetter  that  seals  my 
engagement  to  him.  Perhaps  it  isn't." 

"  Yet  you  said  just  now " 

"  About  that  eccentric  king  ?  Well,  I  spoke  truly. 
Eoyalty  has  not  yet  thrown  itself  at  my  feet.  Still/' — 
coquettishly, — ' '  that  is  no  reason  why  I  should  look  coldly 
upon  all  commoners." 

"  Be  serious,  Molly,  for  one  moment,"  he  entreats,  the 
look  of  passionate  earnestness  she  so  much  dislikes  coming 
over  his  face,  darkening  instead  of  brightening  it.  "  Some- 
times I  am  half  mad  with  doubt.  Tell  me  the  truth, — now, 
• — here.  Are  you  engaged  ?  Is  there  anything  between 
you  and — Luttrell  ?  " 

The  spirit  of  mischief  has  laid  hold  of  Molly.  She  cares 
nothing  at  all  for  Shadwell.  Of  all  the  men  she  has  met 
at  Herst  he  attracts  her  least.  She  scarcely  understands 
the  wild  love  with  which  she  has  inspired  him  ;  she  cannot 
sympathize  with  his  emotion. 

"Well,  if  you  compel  me  to  confess  it,"  she  says,  lower- 
ing her  eyes,  '  there  is." 

"  It  is  true,  then  ! "  cries  he,  rising  to  his  feet  and  turn- 
ing deadly  pale.  "  My  fears  did  not  deceive  me." 

"  Quite  true.  There  is  a  whole  long  room  '  between 
me'  and  Mr.  Luttrell  and" — dropping  her  voice — "you." 
Here  she  laughs  merrily  and  with  all  her  heart.  To  her  it 
is  a  jest, — no  more. 

"  How  a  woman — the  very  best  woman — loves  to  tor- 
ture ! "  exclaims  he,  anger  and  relief  struggling  in  his 
tone.  "  Oh,  that  I  dared  believe  that  latter  part  of  your 
sentence, — that  I  could  stand  between  you  and  all  the 
world!" 

"  '  Fain  would  I  climb,  but  that  I  fear  to  fall/  "  quotes 
Molly,  jestingly.  "  You  know  the  answer  ?  '  If  thy  heart 
fail  thee,  do  not  climb  at  all.'  " 

"Is  that  a  challenge  ? "  demands  he,  eagerly,  going 
nearer  to  her. 

"  I  don't  know."  Waving  him  back.  "  Hear  the 
oracle  again.  I  feel  strong  in  appropriate  rhyme  to- 
fcight: 


246  MOLL  Y  BA  Wtf. 

"  '  He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  deserts  are  small, 
Who  fears  to  put  it  to  the  touch 
To  win.  or  lose  it  all.'  " 

They  are  quite  alone.  Some  one  has  given  the  cfoof 
leading  to  the  adjoining  apartment  a  push  tnat  has  entirely 
closed  it.  Molly,  in  her  white  evening  gown  and  pale-blue 
ribbons,  with  a  bunch  of  her  favorite  roses  at  her  breast,  is 
looking  up  at  him,  a  little  mocking  smile  upon  her  lips. 
She  is  cold, — perhaps  a  shade  amused, — without  one  par- 
ticle of  sentiment. 

"I  fear  nothing,"  cries  Philip,  in  a  low  impassioned 
tone,  made  unwisely  bold  by  her  words,  seizing  her  hands 
and  pressing  warm,  unwelcome  kisses  on  them ;  "  whether 
I  win  or  lose,  I  will  speak  now.  Yet  what  shall  I  tell  you 
that  you  do  not  already  know  ?  I  love  you, — my  idol, — 
my  darling  !  Oh,  Molly  !  do  not  look  so  coldly  on  me." 

"  Don't  be  earnest,  Philip,"  interrupts  she,  with  a  frown, 
and  a  sudden  change  of  tone,  raising  her  head,  and  regard- 
ing him  with  distasteful  hauteur;  "there  is  nothing  I 
detest  so  much ;  and  your  earnestness  especially  weariea 
me.  When  I  spoke  I  was  merely  jesting,  as  you  must  have 
known.  I  do  not  want  youi  love.  I  have  told  you  so  before. 
Let  my  hands  go,  Philip  ;  your  touch  is  hateful  to  me." 

He  drops  her  hanvls  as  though  they  burned  him ;  and 
she,  with  flushed  cheeks  and  a  still  frowning  brow,  turns 
abruptly  away,  leaving  him  alone, — angered,  hurt,  but  still 
adoring. 

Ten  minutes  later,  her  heart — a  tender  one — misgives 
her.  She  has  been  unjust  to  him, — unkind.  She  will 
return  and  make  such  reparation  as  lies  in  her  power. 

With  a  light  step  she  returns  to  the  tea-room,  where  she 
left  him,  and,  looking  gently  in,  finds  he  has  neither  stirred 
nor  raised  his  head  since  her  cruel  words  cut  him  to  the 
heart.  Ten  minutes, — a  long  time, — and  all  consumed  in 
thoughts  of  her !  Feeling  still  more  contrite,  she  ap- 
proaches him. 

"_Why,  Philip,"  she  says,  with  an  attempt  at  playfulness, 
"  still  enduring  '  grinding  torments  ? '  What  have  I  said 
to  you  ?  You  have  taken  my  foolish  words  too  much  tc 
heart.  That  is  not  wise.  Sometimes  I  hardly  know  my- 
self what  it  is  I  have  been  saving." 

She  has  come  very  near  to  him, — so  near  that  gazing  up 
At  him  appealingly,  ahe  brings  her  face  in  dangerously  clow 


MOLLY  3 AWN.  247 

proximity  to  his.  A  mad  desire  to  kiss  the  lips  that  sue 
so  sweetly  for  a  pardon  fills  him,  yet  he  dares  not  do  it. 
Although  a  man  not  given  to  self-restraint  where  desire  is 
at  elbow  urging  him  on,  he  now  stands  subdued,  unnerved, 
in  Molly's  presence. 

"  Have  I  really  distressed  you  ?  "  asks  she,  softly,  his 
strange  silence  rendering  her  still  more  remorseful.  "  Come, 
— laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm, — "  tell  me  what  I  have 
done"." 

"  '  Sweet,  you  have  trod  on  a  heart/"  quotes  Philip,  in 
so  low  a  tone  as  to  be  almost  unheard.  He  crosses  his  hand 
tightly  over  hers  for  an  instant  ;  a  moment  later,  and  it  is 
she  who — this  time — finds  herself  alone. 

In  the  next  room  success  is  crowning  their  efforts.  When 
Molly  re-enters,  she  finds  the  work  almost  completed. 
Just  a  finishing  touch  here  and  there,  and  all  is  ended. 

"I  suppose  I  should  consider  myself  in  luck  :  I  have 
still  a  little  skin  left,"  says  Sir  Penthony,  examining  his 
hand  with  tender  solicitude.  "I  don't  think  I  fancy 
decorating  :  I  shan't  take  to  the  trade." 

"  You — should  have  put  on  gloves,  you  know,  and  that," 
says  Grainger,  who  is  regarding  his  dainty  fingers  with  un- 
disguised sadness, — something  that  is  almost  an  expression 
on  his  face. 

"But  isn't  it  awfully  pretty?"  says  Lady  Stafford, 
gazing  round  her  with  an  air  of  pride. 

"Awfully  nice,"  replies  Molly. 

"Quite  too  awfully  awful,"  exclaims  Mr.  Potts,  with 
exaggerated  enthusiasm,  and  is  instantly  suppressed. 

"  If  yon  cannot  exhibit  greater  decorum,  Potts,  we  shall 
be  obliged  to  put  your  head  in  a  bag,"  says  Sir  Penthony 
severely.  "  I  consider  *  awfully  '  quite  the  correct  word*. 
What  with  the  ivy  and  the  gigantic  size  of  those  paper 
roses,  the  room  presents  quite  a  startling  appearance." 

"Well,  I'm  sure  they  are  far  prettier  than  Lady  Harriet 
Nitemair's ;  and  she  made  such  a  fuss  about  hers  last 
spring,"  says  Cecil,  rather  injured. 

"Not  to 'be  named  in  the  same  dav,"  declares  Luttrell, 
who  had  not  been  at  Lady  Harriet  Nitemair's. 

"  Why,  Tedcastle,  you  were  not  there  ;  you  were  on  your 
way  home  from  India  at  that  time." 

"  Was  I  ?  By  Jove  !  so  I  was.  Never  mind,  I  take  your 
word  for  it,  and  stick  to  my  opinion,"  replies  Luttrell, 
unabashed 


248  MOLLY  BAWN. 

"I  really  think  we  ought  to  christen  our  work,"  Mr. 
Potts  puts"  ill  dreamily,  being  in  a  thirsty  mood ;  and 
christened  it  is  in  champagne. 

Potts  himself,  having  drunk  his  own  and  every  one  else's 
health  many  times,  grows  gradually  gayer  and  gayer.  To 
wind  up  this  momentous  evening  without  making  it  remark- 
able in  any  way  strikes  him  as  being  a  tame  proceeding. 
"  To  do  or  die  "  suddenly  occurs  to  him,  and  he  instantly 
acts  upon  it. 

Seeing  his  two  former  allies  standing  rather  apart  from 
the  others,  he  makes  for  them  and  thus  addresses  them  : 

"Tell  you  what,"  he  says,  with  much  geniality,  "it  feels 
like  Christmas,  and  crackers,  and  small  games,  don't  it  ?  I 
feel  up  to  anything.  And  I  have  a  capital  idea  in  my  head. 
Wouldn't  it  be  rather  a  joke  to  frighten  the  others  ?  " 

"It  would,"  says  Cecil,  decidedly. 

"  Would  it  ?  "  says  Molly,  diffidently. 

"  I  have  a  first-rate  plan  ;  I  can  make  you  both  look  so 
Ake  ghosts  that  you  would  frighten  the  unsuspecting  into 
fits." 

"  First,  Plantagenet,  before  we  go  any  further  into  your 
ghostly  schemes,  answer  me  this  :  is  there  any  gunpowder 
about  it  ?" 

' '  None. "  Laughing.  "  You  just  dress  yourselves  in  white 
sheets,  or  that,  and  hold  a  plate  in  your  hands  filled  with 
whiskey  and  salt,  and — there  you  are.  You  have  no  idea 
of  the  tremendous  effect.  You  will  be  more  like  a  corpse 
than  anything  you  can  imagine." 

"How  cheerful!''  murmurs  Cecil.  "You  make  me 
long  for  the  '  sheets  and  that."' 

"  Do  the  whiskey  and  the  salt  ever  blow  up  ? "  asks 
Molly,  cautiously.  "  Because  if  so " 

"No,  they  don't;  of  course  not.  Say  nothing  about 
it  to  the  others,  and  we  shall  astonish  them  by  and  by. 
It  is  an  awfully  becoming  thing,  too,"  says  Potts,  with  a 
/iew  to  encouragement ;  "you  will  look  like  marble 
statues." 

"We  are  trusting  you  again,  "says  Cecil,  regarding  him 
fixedly.  "  Plantagenet,  if  you  should  again  be  our  un- 
doing  " 

"Not  the  slightest  fear  of  a,  fiasco  this  time,"  sayg 
Potts,  comfortably. 


MOLLY  DAWN.  249 


CHAPTER 

"  Here's  such  a  coil  I    Come,  what  saya  Romeo  ?  " 

— SHAKESPEAEB. 

As  eleven  o'clock  strikes,  any  one  going  up  the  stairs 
at  Herst  would  have  stopped  with  a  mingled  feeling  of 
terror  and  admiration  at  'one  particular  spot,  where,  in  a 
niche,  upon  a  pedestal,  a  very  goddess  stands. 

It  is  Molly,  clad  in  white,  from  head  to  heel,  with  a 
lace  scarf  twisted  round  her  head  and  shoulders,  and  with 
one  bare  arm  uplifted,  while  with  the  other  she  holds  an 
urn-shaped  vase  beneath  her  face,  from  which  a  pale-blue 
flame  arises. 

Her  eyes,  larger,  deeper,  bluer  than  usual,  are  fixed  with 
sad  and  solemn  meaning  upon  space.  She  scarcely  seems 
to  breathe  ;  no  quiver  disturbs  her  frame,  so  intensely  does 
she  listen  for  a  coming  footstep.  In  her  heart  she  hopes  it 
may  be  LuttrelFs. 

The  minutes  pass.  Her  arm  is  growing  tired,  her  eyes 
begin  to  blink  against  her  will ;  she  is  on  the  point  of 
throwing  up  the  game,  descending  from  her  pedestal,  and 
regaining  her  own  room,  when  a  footfall  recalls  her  to 
herself  and  puts  her  on  her  mettle. 

Nearer  it  comes, — still  nearer,  until  it  stops  altogether. 
Molly  does  not  dare  turn  to  see  who  it  is.  A  moment 
jater,  a  wild  cry,  a  smothered  groan,  falls  upon  her  ear, 
and,  turning  her  head,  terrified,  she  sees  her  grandfather 
rush  past  her,  tottering,  trembling,  until  he  reaches  hia 
own  room,  where  he  disappears. 

Almost  at  the  same  instant  the  others  who  have  been  in 
the  drawing-room,  drawn  to  the  spot  by  the  delicate  mach- 
inations of  Mr.  Potts,  come  on  the  scene ;  while  Marcia, 
who  has  heard  that  scared  cry,  emerges  quickly  from 
among  them  and  passes  up  the  stairs  into  her  grandfather's 
room. 

There  follows  an  awkward  silence.  Cecil,  who  has  been 
adorning  a  corner  farther  on,  conies  creeping  toward  them, 
pale  and  nervous,  having,  also  been  a  witness  to  Mr. 
Amherst's  hurried  flight ;  and  she  and  Molly,  in  their 
masquerading  costumes,  feel,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  rather 
small. 


150  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

They  cast  a  withering  glance  at  Potts,  who  has  grown  a 
lively  purple  ;  but  he  only  shakes  his  head,  having  no  ex- 
planation to  offer,  and  knowing  himself  for  once  in  hia 
life  to  be  unequal  to  the  occasion. 

Mrs.  Barley  is  the  first  to  break  silence. 

"  "What  is  it  ?  What  has  happened  ?  Why  are  you  both 
here  in  your  night-dresses  ?  "  she  asks,  unguardedly,  losing 
her  head  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment. 

' '  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  says  Cecil,  angrily.  "  '  Night- 
dresses ' !  If  you  don't  know  dressing-gowns  when  you 
see  them,  I  am  sorry  for  you.  Plantagenet,  what  has  hap- 
pened ?  " 

"  It  was  grandpapa/'  says  Molly,  in  a  frightened  tone. 
"  He  came  by,  and  I  think  was  upset  by  my — appearance. 
Oh,  I  hope  I  have  not  done  him  any  harm  !  Mr.  Potts, 
why  did  you  make  me  do  it  ?  " 

"  How  could  I  tell  ? "  replies  Potts,  who  is  as  white 
as  their  costumes.  "  What  an  awful  shriek  he  gave  !  I 
thought  such  a  stern  old  card  as  he  is  would  have  had 
pore  pluck  ! " 

"I  was  positive  he  was  in  bed,"  says  Cecil,  "or  I  should 
never  have  ventured/' 

"  He  is  never  where  he  ought  to  be,"  mutters  Potts 
gloomily. 

Here  conversation  fails  them.  For  once  they  are  hon- 
estly dismayed,  and  keep  their  eyes  fixed  in  anxious  expec- 
tation on  the  bedchamber  of  their  host.  Will  Marcia  never 
come  ? 

At  length  the  door  opens  and  she  appears,  looking  pale 
and  distraite.  Her  eyes  light  angrily  as  they  fall  on  Molly. 

"  Grandpapa  is  very  much  upset.  He  is  ill.  It  was 
heartless, — a  cruel  trick,"  she  says,  rather  incoherently. 
"  He  wishes  to  see  you,  Eleanor,  instantly.  You  had  bet- 
ter go  to  him." 

"  Must  I ?"  asks  Molly,  who  is  quite  colorless,  and  much 
inclined  to  cry. 

"  Unless  you  wish  to  add  disobedience  to  your  other  un- 
feeling conduct,"  replies  Marcia,  coldly. 

"  No,  no  ;  of  course  not.  I  will  go,"  says  Molly,  nerv- 
ously. 

With  faltering  footsteps  she  approaches  the  fatal  door, 
•whilst  the  others  disperse  and  return  once  more  to  the 
drawing-room, — all,  that  is,  except  Lady  Stafford,  who  seeks 
fcer  own  chamber,  and  Mr.  Potts,  who,  in  an  agony  of  doubt 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  25] 

and  fear,  lingers  about  the  corridor,  awaiting  Moll/a 
return. 

As  she  enters  her  grandfathers  room  she  finds  him  lying 
on  a  couch,  half  upright,  an  angry,  disappointed  expression 
on  his  face,  distrust  in  his  searching  eyes. 

' '-  Come  here,"  he  says,  harshly,  motioning  her  with  one 
finger  to  his  side,  "and  tell  me  why  you,  of  an  others, 
should  have  chosen  to  play  this  trick  upon  me.  Was  it 
revenge  ?  " 

"  Upon  you,  grandpapa  I  Oil,  not  upon  you,"  says 
Molly,  shocked.  "  It  was  all  a  mistake, — a  mere  foolish 
piece  of  fun  ;  but  I  never  thought  you  would  have  been  the 
one  to  see  me." 

"Are  you  lying?  Let  me  look  at  you.  If  so,  you  do  it 
cleverly.  Your  face  is  honest.  Yet  I  hear  it  was  for  me 
alone  this  travesty  was  enacted." 

"Whoever  told  you  so  spoke  falsely,"  Molly  says,  pale 
but  firm,  a  great  indignation  toward  Marcia  rising  in  her 
breast.  She  has  her  hands  on  the  back  of  a  chair,  and  is 

fazing  anxiously  but  openly  at  the  old  man.    "  Why  should 
seek  to  offend  you,  who  have  been  so  kind  to  me, — whose 
bread  I  have  eaten  ?    You  do  not  understand  :  you  wrong 
me." 

"I  thought  it  was  your  mother,"  whispers  he,  with  a 
quick  shiver,  "  from  her  grave,  returned  to  reproach  me, — • 
to  remind  me  of  all  the  miserable  past.  It  was  a  senseless 
thought.  But  the  likeness  was  awful, — appalling.  She  was 
my  favorite  daughter,  yet  she  of  all  creatures  was  the  one 
to  thwart  me  most ;  and  I  did  not  forgive.  I  left  her  to 
pine  for  the  luxuries  to  which  she  was  accustomed  from 
her  birth,  and  could  not  then  procure.  She  was  delicate. 
I  let  her  wear  her  heart  out  waiting  for  a  worthless  pardon. 
And  what  a  heart  it  was !  Then  I  would  not  forgive  ; 
now — now  I  crave  forgiveness.  Oh,  that  the  dead  could 
epeak ! " 

He  covers  his  face  with  his  withered  hands,  that  shake 
and  tremble  like  October  leaves,  and  a  troubled  sigh  escapes 
him.  For  the  moment  the  stern  old  man  has  disappeared  ; 
only  the  penitent  remains. 

"  Dear  grandpapa,  be  comforted,"  says  Molly,  much  af 
fected,  sinking  on  her  knees  beside  him.  Never  before,  03 
either  brother  or  grandfather,  has  her  dead  mother  been  so 
openly  alluded  to.  "She  did  forgive.  So  sweet  as  she 
was,  how  could  she  retain  a  bitter  feeling  ?  Listen  to  me. 


252  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

Am  I  not  her  only  child  ?  Who  so  meet  to  offer  yon  Inaf 
pardon?  Let  me  comfort  you." 

Mr.  Amherst  makes  no  reply,  but  he  gently  presses  the 
fingers  that  have  found  their  way  around  his  neck. 

"I,  too,  would  ask  pardon,"  Molly  goes  on,  in  her 
sweet,  low,  trainante  voice,  that  has  a  sob  in  it  here  and 
th«re.  "  How  shall  I  gain  it  after  all  that  I  have  done — to 
distress  you  so,  although  unintentionally  ? — And  you  think 
hardly  of  me,  grandpapa  ?  You  think  I  did  it  to  annoy 
you?" 

"  No,  no  ;  not  now." 

"I  have  made  you  ill,"  continues  Molly,  still  crying; 
"  I  have  caused  you  pain.  Oh,  grandpapa  !  do  say  you  are 
not  angry  with  me." 

"  I  am  not.  You  are  a  good  child,  and  Marcia  wronged 
you.  Go  now,  and  forget  all  I  may  have  said.  I  am  weak 
at  times,  and — and Go,  child  ;  I  am  better  alone." 

In  the  corridor  outside  stands  Mr.  Potts,  with  pale  cheeks 
and  very  pale  eyes.  Even  his  hair  seems  to  have  lost  a 
shade,  and  looks  subdued. 

"  Well,  what  did  he  say  to  you  ?"  he  asks,  in  what  he 
fondly  imagines  to  be  a  whisper,  but  which  would  be  dis- 
tinctly audible  in  the  hall  beneath.  "  Was  he  awfully  mad  ? 
Did  he  cut  up  very  rough  ?  I  wouldn't  have  been  iu  your 
shoes  for  a  mllion.  Did  he — did  he — say  anything  about 
-met" 

"I  don't  believe  he  remembered  your  existence,"  says 
Molly,  with  a  laugh,  although  her  eyelids  are  still  of  a  shade 
too  decided  to  be  becoming.  "  He  knew  nothing  of  your 
share  in  the  transaction." 

Whereupon  Mr.  Potts  declares  himself  thankful  for  so 
much  mercy  in  a  devout  manner,  and  betakes  himself  to 
the  smoking-room. 

Here  he  is  received  with  much  applause  and  more  con- 
gratulations. 

"  Another  of  Mr.  Potts's  charming  entertainments,"  says 
Sir  Penthony,  with  a  wave  of  the  hand.  "Extraordinary 
and  enthusiastic  reception  !  Such  success  has  seldom 
before  been  witnessed  !  Last  time  he  blew  up  two  young 
women  ;  to-night  he  has  slain  an  offensive  old  gentleman  ! 
Reallv,  Potts,  you  must  allow  me  to  shake  hands  with  you." 

"Was  there  ever  anything  more  imfortunate  ?"  says 
Potts,  in  a  lachrymose  tone.  He  has  not  been  inattentive 
to  the  requirements  of  the  inner  man  since  his  entrance,, 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

mad  already,  slowly  but  surely,  the  brandy  ie  doing  iti  won-. 
"  It  was  all  so  well  arranged,  and  I  made  sure  the  old  boy 
was  gone  to  bed. " 

"He  is  upset,"  murmurs  Sir  Penthony,  with  touching 
concern,  "  and  no  wonder.  Such  tremendous  exertion  re- 
quires the  aid  of  stimulants  to  keep  it  up.  My  dear  Potts, 
do  have  a  little  more  brandy-and-soda.  You  don't  take 
half  care  of  yourself." 

"Not  a  drop, — not  a  drop,"  says  Mr.  Potts,  drawing 
the  decanter  toward  him.  "  It  don't  agree  with  me.  Oh, 
Stafford  !  you  should  have  seen  Miss  Massereene  in  her 
Greek  costume.  I  think  she  is  the  loveliest  creature  I  ever 
saw.  She  is,"  goes  on  Mr.  Potts,  with  unwise  zeal,  "by 
far  the  loveliest,  'and  the  same  I  would  rise  to  maintain/ 

"I  wouldn't,  if  I  were  you,"  says  Philip,  who  is  indig- 
nant. "  There  is  no  knowing  what  tricks  your  legs  may 
play  with  you." 

"She  was  just  like  Venus,  or — or  some  of  those  other 
goddesses,"  says  Mr.  Potts,  vaguely. 

"  I  can  well  believe  it,"  returns  Stafford ;  "but  don't  let 
emotion  master  you.  '  There's  naught,  no  doubt,  so  much 
ihe  spirit  calms  as  rum  and  true  religion. '  Try  a  little  of 
the  former." 

"There's  nothing  in  life  I  wouldn't  do  for  that  girl, — 
nothing,  I  declare  to  you,  Stafford,"  goes  on  Potts,  who  is 
quite  in  tears  by  this  time  ;  "but  she  wouldn't  look  at  me." 

Luttrell  and  Philip  are  enraged  ;  Stafford  and  the  others 
are  in  roars. 

"  Wouldn't  she,  Potts  ?  "  says  Stafford,  with  a  fine  show 
of  sympathy.  "  Who  knows  ?  Cheer  up,  old  boy,  and  re- 
member women  never  know  their  own  minds  at  first.  She 
may  yet  become  alive  to  your  many  perfections,  and  know 
her  heart  to  be  all  yours.  Think  of  that.  And  why  should 
ghe  not  ?"  says  Sir  Penthony,  with  free  encouragement. 
"  Where  could  she  get  a  better  fellow  ?  '  Faint  heart/  you 
know,  Potts.  Take  my  advice  and  pluck  up  spirit,  and  go 
in  for  her  boldly.  Throw  yourself  at  her  feet." 

"  I  will,"  says  Mr.  Potts,  ardently. 

"  To-morrow,"  advises  Sir  Penthony,  with  growing  ex- 
citement. 

"  Now,"  declares  Potts,  with  wild  enthusiasm,  mating  a 
rush  for  the  door. 

"  Not  to-night ;  wait  until  to-morrow,"  Sir  Penthony 
says,  who  has  not  anticipated  so  ready  an  acceptance  of  his 


354  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

Advice,  getting  between  him  and  the  door.  "In  my  opinion 
fcke  has  retired  to  her  room  by  this  ;  and  it  really  would  be 
rather  sketchy,  you  know, — eh  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  say,  Luttrell  ?  "  asks  Potts,  uncertainly. 
"What  would  you  advise  ? " 

"  Bed,"  returns  Luttrell,  curtly,  turning  on  his  heel. 

And  finally  the  gallant  Potts  is  conveyed  to  his  room, 
without  being  allowed  to  lay  his  hand  and  fortune  at  Miss 
Hassereene's  feet. 


About  four  o'clock  the  next  day, — being  that  of  the  ball, 
— Sir  Penthony,  strolling  along  the  west  corridor,  comes 
to  a  standstill  before  Cecil's  door,  which  happens  to  lie 
wide  open. 

Cecil  herself  is  inside,  and  is  standing  so  as  to  be  seen, 
clad  in  the  memorable  white  dressing-gown  of  the  evening 
before,  making  a  careful  choice  between  two  bracelets  she 
holds  in  her  hands. 

"Is  that  the  garment  in  which  you  so  much  distin- 
guished yourself  last  night  ? "  Sir  Penthony  cannot  help 
asking ;  and,  with  a  little  start  and  blush,  she  raises  her 
eyes. 

"  Is  it  you  ?  "  she  says,  smiling.  "  Yes,  this  is  the  iden- 
tical robe.  "  Won't  you  come  in,  Sir  Penthony  ?  You 
are  quite  welcome.  If  you  have  nothing  better  to  do  you 
can  stay  with  and  talk  to  me  for  a  little." 

"I  have  plenty  to  do," — coming  in  and  closing  the  door, 
— "but  nothing  I  would  not  gladly  throw  over  to  accept 
an  invitation  from  you." 

"  Dear  me  !  What  a  charming  speech  !  What  a  court- 
ier you  would  have  made  !  Consider  yourself  doubly  wel- 
come. I  adore  pretty  speeches,  when  addressed  to  myself. 
Now,  sit  there,  while  I  decide  on  what  jewelry  I  shall  wear 
to-night/' 

"So  this  is  her  sanctum,"  thinks  her  husband,  glancing 
around.  What  a  dainty  nest  it  is,  with  its  innumerable 
feminine  fineries,  its  piano,  its  easel,  its  pretty  pink-and- 
blue  cretonne,  its  wealth  of  flowers,  although  the  season  is 
of  the  coldest  and  bleakest. 

A  cozy  fire  bums  brightly.     In   the  wall   opposite  is 
an    open    door,   through   which    one    catches   a   glimpse 
of  the  bedroom   bevond,    decked    out    in    all    its   pink 
and- white  glory.     There  is  a  very  sociable  little  clock,  u 


MOLLY  BAWtf.  255 

table  strewn  with  wools  and  colored  silks,  and  mirrors 
everywhere. 

As  for  Cecil  herself,  with  honest  admiration  her  husband 
carefully  regards  her.  What  a  pretty  woman  she  is!  full 
of  all  the  tender  graces,  the  lovable  caprices,  that  wake  the 
heart  to  fondness. 

How  charming  a  person  to  come  to  in  grief  or  trouble, 
or  even  in  one's  gladness  !  How  full  of  gayety,  yet  in> 
measurable  tenderness,  is  her  speaking  face  f  Verily,  there 
is  a  depth  of  sympathy  to  be  found  in  a  pretty  woman  that 
a  plain  one  surely  lacks. 

Her  white  gown  becomes  her  d,  merveille,  and  fits  her  to 
perfection.  She  cannot  be  called  fat,  but  as  certainly  she 
cannot  be  called  thin.  When  people  speak  of  her  with 
praise,  they  never  fail  to  mention  the  "pretty  roundness" 
of  her  figure. 

Her  hair  has  partly  come  undone,  and  hangs  in  a  fais, 
loose  coil,  rather  lower  than  usual,  upon  her  neck.  This 
suits  her,  making  still  softer  her  soft  though  piquant* 
face. 

Her  white  and  jeweled  fingers  are  busy  in  the  case  be- 
fore her  as,  with  puckered  b/rows,  she  sighs  over  the  difi*- 
culty  of  making  a  wise  and  becoming1  choice  in  precious 
stones  for  the  evening's  triumphs. 

At  last — a  set  of  sapphires  having  gained  the  day — she 
lays  the  casket  aside  and  turns  to  her  husband,  while  won- 
dering with  demure  amusement  on  the  subject  of  his 
thoughts  during  these  past  few  minutes. 

He  has  been  thinking  of  her,  no  doubt.  Her  snowy 
wrapper,  with  all  its  dainty  frills  and  bows,  is  eminently 
becoming.  Yes,  beyond  all  question  he  has  been  indulging 
in  sentimental  regrets. 

Sir  Penthony's  first  remark  rather  dispels  the  illusion. 

"  The  old  boy  puts  you  up  very  comfortably  down  here, 
don't  he  ?  "  he  says,  in  a  terribly  prosaic  tone. 

Is  this  all  ?  Has  he  been  admiring  the  furniture  during 
all  these  eloquent  moments  of  silence,  instead  of  her  and 
her  innumerable  charms  ?  Insufferable  ! 

"He  do/'  responds  she,  dryly,  with  a  careful  adaptation 
of  his  English. 

Sir  Ponthony  raises  his  eyebrows  in  affected  astonish- 
ment, and  then  they  both  laugh. 

"I  do  hope  you  are  not  going  to  say  rude  things  to  ma 
aoout  last  night,"  she  says,  still  smiling. 


258  MOLL  Y  BA  Wtf. 

"No.  You  may  remember  once  before  on  a  very  simi 
lar  occasion  I  told  you  I  should  never  again  scold  you,  foi 
the  simple  reason  that  I  considersd  it  language  thrown 
away.  I  was  right,  as  the  sequel  proved.  Besides,  tha 
extreme  becomingness  of  your  toilet  altogether  disarmed 
me.  By  the  bye,  when  do  you  return  to  town  ?  " 

"  Next  week.     And  you  ?  " 

"  I  shall  go— when  you  go.     May  I  call  on  you  there  ?  " 

"  Indeed  you  may.  I  like  you  quite  well  enough/'  says 
her  ladyship,  with  unsentimental  and  therefore  most  objec- 
tionable frankness,  "to  wish  you  for  my  friend." 

"  Why  should  we  not  be  more  than  friends,  Cecil  ? " 
says  Stafford,  going  up  to  her  and  taking  both  her  hands 
in  a  warm,  affectionate  clasp.  "Just  consider  how  we  two 
are  situated  :  you  are  bound  to  me  forever,  until  death 
shall  kindly  step  in  to  relieve  you  of  me,  and  I  am  bound 
to  you  as  closely.  Why,  then,  should  we  not  accept  our 
position,  and  make  our  lives  one  ?  " 

"You  should  have  thought  of  all  this  before." 

"  How  could  I  ?  Think  what  a  deception  you  practiced 
on  ne  when  sending  that  miserable  picture.  I  confess  I 
abhor  ugliness.  And  then,  your  own  conditions, — what 
could  I  do  but  abide  by  them  ?  " 

"  There  are  certain  times  when  a  woman  does  not  alto- 
gether care  about  being  taken  so  completely  at  her  word." 

"  But  that  was  not  one  of  them."  Hastily.  "  I  do  not 
believe  you  would  have  wished  to  live  with  a  man  you 
neither  knew  nor  cared  for." 

"Perhaps  not."  Laughing.  "  Sometimes  I  hardly  know 
myself  Avhat  it  is  I  do  want.  But  are  we  not  very  well  as 
we  are  ?  I  dare  say,  had  we  been  living  together  for  the 
past  three  years,  we  should  now  dislike  each  other  as  cor- 
dially as — as  do  Maud  Darley  and  her  husband." 

"  Impossible  !  Maud  Darley  is  one  person,  you  are  quite 
another;  while  I — well" — with  a  smile — "I  honestly  con- 
fess I  fancy  myself  rather  more  than  poor  Henry  Darley." 

"He  certainly  is  plain,"  says  Cecil,  pensively,  "and — 
he  snores, — two  great  points  against  him,  Yes,  on  consid- 
eration, you  are  an  improvement  on  Henry  Darley." 
Then,  with  a  sudden  change  of  tone,  she  says,  "  Does  all 
this  mean  that  you  love  me  ?  " 

"Yes  I  confess  it,  Cecil,"  answers  he,  gravely,  ear- 
nestly. "  I  love  you  as  I  never  believed  it  possible  I  should 
love  a  woman.  I  am  twenty-nine,  and — think  me  cold  ii 


MOLLY  BA-WN.  357 

you   will — but   up   to  this  I  never  yet  saw  the  woman  I 
wanted  for  my  wife  except  you." 

'•'Then  you  ought  to  consider  yourself  the  happiest  n*an 
alive,  because  you  have  the  thing  you  crave.  As  you  re- 
minded me  just  now,  I  am  yours  until  death  us  do  part." 

"Not  all  I  crave,  not  the  best  part  of  you,  your  "heart," 
replies  he,  tenderly.  "  No  man  loving  as  I  do,  could  be 
contented  with  a  part." 

"  Oh,  it  is  too  absurd,"  says  Cecil,  with  a  little  aggra- 
vating shake  of  the  head.  "  In  love  with  your  own  wife 
in  this  prosaic  nineteenth  century  !  It  savors  of  the  ridic- 
ulous. Such  mistaken  feeling  has  been  tabooed  long  ago. 
Conquer  it ;  conquer  it." 

"  Too  late.  Besides,  I  have  no  desire  to  conquer  it.  On 
the  contrary,  I  encourage  it,  in  hope  of  some  return.  No, 
do  not  dishearten  me.  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say  ; 
but  at  least  you  like  me,  Cecil  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes  ;  but  what  of  that  ?     I  like  so  many  people." 

"  Then  go  a  little  further,  and  say  you — love  me." 

"  That  would  be  going  a  great  deal  further,  because  I 
love  so  few." 

"Nevermind.     Say  '  Penthony,  I  love  you. ": 

He  has  placed  his  hands  upon  her  shoulders,  and  is  re- 
garding her  with  anxious  fondness. 

"  Would  you  have  me  tell  you  an  untruth  ?" 

"I  would  have  you  say  you  love  me." 

"  But  supposing  I  cannot  in  honesty  ?  " 

"Try." 

"  Of  course  I  can  try.  Words  without  meaning  are  easy 
things  to  say.  But  then — a  lie  ;  that  is  a  serious  matter. 

"It  may  cease  to  be  a  He,  once  uttered." 

"  Well,— just  to  please  you,  then,  and  as  an  experiment 

— and You  are  sure  you  will  not  despise  me  for  saying 

it?" 

"  No." 

"  Nor  accuse  me  afterward  of  deceit?  ** 

"Of  course  not." 

"  Nor  think  me  weak-minded  ?  " 

"No,  no.     How  could  I?" 

"Well,  then — Penthony — I — don't  love  you  the  least  Mi 
in  the  world  I "  declares  Cecil,  with  a  provoking,  irresisti- 
ble lauffh,  stepping  backward  out  of  his  reach. 

Sir  Penthony  does  not  speak  for  a  moment  or  two  ;  then 
*'  '  Sweet  is  revenge,  especially  to  women,' "  he  says,  quietly, 


258  MOLL  Y  BA 

although  at  heart  he  is  bitterly  chagrined.  To  be  unloved 
is  one  thing — to  be  laughed  at  is  another.  "  After  all,  you 
are  right.  There  is  nothing  in  this  world  so  rare  or  so 
admirable  as  honesty.  I  am  glad  you  told  me  no  untruth, 
even  in  jest." 

Just  at  this  instant  the  door  opens,  and  Molly  enters. 
She  looks  surprised  at  such  an  unexpected  spectacle  as 
Cecil's  husband  sitting  in  his  wife's  boudoir,  tete-a-ttte 
with  her. 

"Don't  be  shy,  dear,"  says  Cecil,  mischievously,  with 
a  little  wicked  laugh  ;  "you  may  come  in ;  it  is  only  my 
husband." 

The  easy  nonchalance  of  this  speech,  the  only  half -sup- 
pressed amusement  in  her  tone,  angers  Sir  Penthony  more 
than  all  that  has  gone  before.  With  a  hasty  word  or  two 
to  Molly,  he  suddenly  remembers  a  pressing  engagement, 
and,  with  a  slight  bow  to  his  wife,  takes  his  departure. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

"  Take,  oh  !  take  those  lips  away, 

That  so  sweetly  were  foresworn  ; 
And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 

Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn  : 
But  my  kisses  bring  again, 
Seals  of  love,  but  seal'd  in  vain." — SHAKESPEARE. 

THE  longed-for  night  has  arrived  at  last ;  so  has  Molly's 
dress,  a  very  marvel  of  art,  fresh  and  pure  as  newly- fallen 
snow.  It  is  white  silk  with  tulle,  on  which  white  water- 
lilies  lie  here  and  there,  as  though  carelessly  thnnvn,  all 
their  broad  and  trailing  leaves  gleaming  from  among  the 
shining  folds. 

Miss  Massereene  is  in  her  own  room,  dressing,  her  faith- 
ful Sarah  on  her  knees  beside  her.  She  has  almost  finished 
her  toilet,  and  is  looking  more  than  usually  lovely  in  her 
London  ball-dress. 

"Our  v'sit  is  nearly  at  an  end,  Sarah  ;  how  have  you 
enjoved  it? "she  asks,  in  an  interval,  during  which 
Sarah  is  at  her  feet,  sewing  on  more  securely  one  of  her 
white  lilies. 

r*  Very  much,  indeed,  miss.     They've  all  been  excessive 


MOLLY  SAWN,  359 

polite,  though  they  do  ask  a  lot  of  questions.  Only  this 
evening  they  wanted  to  know  if  we  was  estated,  and  I  said, 
'  Yes/  Miss  Molly,  because  after  all,  you  know,  miss,  it  is 
a  property,  however  small ;  and  I  wasn't  going  to  let  myself 
down.  ^  And  then  that  young  man  of  Captain  Shad  well's 
ast  me  if  we  was  '  county  people/  which  I  thought  uncom- 
mon imperent.  Not  but  what  he's  a  nice  young  man,  miss, 
and  very  affable." 

"  Still  constant,  Sarah?"  says  Molly,  who  is  deep  in  the 
waves  of  doubt,  not  being  able  to  decide  some  important 
final  point  about  her  dress. 

"  Oh,  law  !  yes,  miss,  he  is  indeed.  It  was  last  night 
he  was  saying  as  my  accent  was  very  sweet.  Now  there 
isn't  one  of  them  country  bumpkins,  miss,  as  would  know 
whether  you  had  an  accent  or  not.  It's  odd  how  traveling 
do  improve  the  mind." 

"Sarah,  you  should  pay  no  attention  to  those  London 
young  men, — (pin  it  more  to  this  side), — because  they 
never  mean  anything." 

"  Law,  Miss  Molly,  do  you  say  so  ?  "  says  her  handmaid, 
suddenly  depressed.  "  Well,  of  course,  miss,  you — who 
are  so  much  with  London  gentlemen — ought  to  know.  And 
don't  they  mean  what  they  say  to  you,  Miss  Molly  ?  " 

"I,  eh?"  says  Molly,  rather  taken  aback  ;  and  then  she 
bursts  out  laughing.  "Sarah,  only  I  know  you  to  be  trust- 
worthy, I  should  certainly  think  you  sarcastic." 

"What's  that,  miss?" 

"  Never  mind, — something  thoroughly  odious.  You 
abash  me,  Sarah.  By  all  means  believe  what  each  one  tells 
you.  It  may  be  as  honestly  said  to  you  as  to  me.  And 
now,  how  do  I  look,  Sarah  ?  Speak,"  says  Molly,  sailing 
away  from  her  up  the  room  like  a  "  white,  white  swan," 
and  then  turning  to  confront  her  and  give  her  a  fair  op- 
portunity of  judging  of  her  charms. 

"  Just  lovely,"  says  Sarah,  with  the  most  flattering  sin- 
cerity of  tone.  "  There  is  no  doubt,  Miss  Molly,  but  yon 
look  quite  the  lady." 

"  Do  I  really  ?  Thank  you,  Sarah/'  says  Molly,  humbly. 

"  I  agree  with  Sarah,"  says  Cecil,  who  has  entered  unno- 
ticed. She  affects  blue,  as  a  rule,  and  is  now  attired  in 
palest  azure,  with  a  faint-pink  blossom  in  her  hair,  and 
another  at  her  breast.  ' '  Sarah  is  a  person  of  much  dis- 
r-rimination  :  you  do  look  'quite  the  lady.'  You  should  bo 
grateful  to  me,  Molly,  when  you  remember  I  ordered  your 


260  MOLLY  BAWN. 

dress  ;  it  is  almost  the  prettiest  I  have  ever  seen,  and  with 
you  in  it  the  effect  is  maddening/' 

"Let  me  get  down-stairs,  at  all  events,  without  having 
my  head  turned,"  says  Molly,  laughing.  "  Oh,  Cecil,  I  feel 
so  happy  !  To  have  a  really  irreproachable  ball-dress,  and 
to  go  to  a  really  large  ball,  has  been  for  years  the  dream  of 
my  life." 

"  I  wonder,  when  the  evening  is  over,  how  you  will  look 
on  your  dream?"  Cecil  cannot  help  saying.  "  Come,  we 
are  late  enough  as  it  is.  But  first  turn  round  and  let  me 
see  the  train.  So ;  that  woman  is  a  perfect  artist  where 
dresses  are  concerned.  You  look  charming." 

"  And  her  neck  and  arms,  my  lady  ! "  puts  in  Sarah,  who 
is  almost  tearful  in  her  admiration.  ' '  Surely  Miss  Masse- 
reene's  cannot  be  equaled.  They  are  that  white,  Miss  Molly, 
that  no  one  could  be  found  fault  with  for  comparing  them 
to  the  dribbling  snow." 

"A  truly  delightful  simile,"  exclaims  Molly,  merrily,  and 
forthwith  follows  Cecil  to  conquest. 

They  find  the  drawing-rooms  still  rather  empty.  Marcia 
is  before  them,  and  Philip  and  Mr.  Potts ;  also  Sir  Penthony. 
Two  or  three  determined  ball-goers  have  arrived,  and  are 
dotted  about,  looking  over  albums,  asking  each  other  how 
they  do,  and  thinking  how  utterly  low  it  is  of  all  the  rest 
of  the  county  to  be  so  late.  "  Such  beastly  affectation,  you 
know,  and  such  a  putting  on  of  side,  and  general  straining 
after  effect." 

"  I  hope,  Miss  Amherst,  you  have  asked  a  lot  of  pretty 
girls,"  says  Plantagenet,  "  and  only  young  ones.  Old  maids 
make  awful  havoc  of  my  temper." 

"  I  don't  think  there  are  '  lots '  of  pretty  girls  anywhere  ; 
but  I  have  asked  as  many  as  I  know.  And  there  are  among 
them  at  least  two  acknowledged  belles." 

"  You  don't  say  so  ! "  exclaims  Sir  Penthony.  "  Miss 
Amherst,  if  you  wish  to  make  me  eternally  grateful  you  will 
point  them  out  to  me.  There  is  nothing  so  distressing  as  not 
to  know.  And  once  I  was  introduced  to  a  beauty,  and  didn't 
discover  my  luck  until  it  was  too  late.  I  never  even  asked 
her  to  dance  !  Could  you  fancy  anything  more  humiliating  ? 
Give  you  my  honor  I  spoke  to  her  for  ten  minutes  and  never 
so  much  as  paid  her  a  compliment.  It  was  too  cruel. — and 
she  the  queen  of  the  evening,  as  I  was  told  afterward." 

"  You  didn't  admire  her  ?  "  asks  Cecil,  interested.  "  Never 
s»w  her  beauty  ?" 


MOLLY  BAWN.  261 

"  No.  She  was  tall  and  had  arched  brows. — two  things 
I  detest." 

The  ball  is  at  its  height.  Marcia,  dressed  in  pale  maiza 
silk, — which  suits  her  dark  and  glowing  beauty, — is  stil] 
receiving  a  few  late  guests  in  her  usual  stately  but  rather 
impassive  manner.  Old  Mr.  Amherst,  standing  beside  her, 
gives  her  an  air  of  importance.  Beyond  all  doubt  she  will 
be  heavily  dowered, — a  wealthy  heiress,  if  not  exactly  the 
.heir. 

Philip,  as  the  supposed  successor  to  the  house  and  landa 
of  Herst,  receives  even  more  attention  ;  while  Molly,  except 
for  her  beauty,  which  outshines  all  that  the  room  contains, 
is  in  no  way  noticeable.  Though,  when  one  holds  the  ace 
of  trumps,  one  feels  almost  independent  of  the  other  honors. 

The  chief  guest — a  marquis,  with  an  aristocratic  limp 
and  only  one  eye — has  begged  of  her  a  square  dance.  Two 
lords — one  very  young,  the  other  distressingly  old — have 
also  solicited  her  hand  in  the  "mazy  dance."  She  is  the 
reigning  belle  ;  and  she  knows  it. 

Beautiful,  sparkling,  brilliant,  she  moves  through  the 
rooms.  A  great  delight,  a  joyous  excitement,  born  of  her 
youth,  the  music,  her  own  success,  fills  her.  She  has  a  smile, 
a  kindly  look,  for  every  one.  Even  Mr.  Buscarlet,  in  the 
blackest  of  black  clothes  and  rather  indifferent  linen,  ventur- 
ing to  address  her  as  she  goes  by  him,  receives  a  gracious 
answer  in  return.  So  does  Mrs.  Buscarlet,  who  is  radiant 
in  pink  satin  and  a  bird-of-paradise  as  a  crown. 

"  Ain't  she  beautiful  ?  "  says  that  substantial  matron,  with 
a  beaming  air  of  approbation,  as  though  Molly  was  her  bosom 
friend,  addressing  the  partner  of  her  joys.  "  Such  a  lovely- 
turned  jaw  !  She  has  quite  a  look  of  my  sister  Mary  Anne 
when  a  girl.  I  wish,  my  dear,  she  was  to  be  heiress  of 
Herst,  instead  of  that  stuck-up  girl  in  yellow/' 

"  So  do  I ;  so  do  I,"  replies  Buscarlet,  following  the 
movements  of  Beauty  as  she  glides  away,  smiling,  dimpling 
on  my  lord's  arm.  "  And — ahem  !" — with  a  meaning  and 
consequential  cough — "  perhaps  she  may.  Who  knows  ? 
There  is  a  certain  person  who  has  often  a  hold  of  her  grand- 
father's ear  !  Ahem  ! " 

Meantime  the  band  is  playing  its  newest,  sweetest  strains  ; 
the  air  is  heavy  with  the  scent  of  flowers.  The  low  ripple 
of  conversation  and  merry  laughter  rises  above  everything- 
The  hours  are  flying  all  too  swiftly. 

"  May  I  have  the  pleasure  of  this  waltz  with  you  ?  "  Sir 


362  MOLLY  S 

Penthony  is  saying,  bending  over  Lady  Stafford,  as  she  sits 
in  one  of  the  numberless  small,  dimly-lit  apartments  that 
branch  off  the  hall. 

"  Dear  Sir  Penthony,  do  you  think  I  will  test  your  good- 
nature so  far  ?  You  are  kind  to  a  fault,  and  I  will  not 
repay  you  so  poorly  as  to  avail  myself  of  your  offer.  Fancy 
condemning  you  to  waste  a  whole  dance  on  your — wife  ! " 

The  first  of  the  small  hours  has  long  since  sounded,  and, 
she  is  a  little  piqued  that  not  until  now  has  he  asked  her* 
to  dance.  Nevertheless,  she  addresses  him  with  her  most 
charming  smile. 

"  I,  for  my  part,  should  not  consider  it  a  dance  wasted/' 
replies  he,  stiffly. 

"Is  he  not  self-denying  ?  "  she  says,  turning  languidly 
toward  Lowry,  who,  as  usual,  stands  beside  her. 

"  You  cannot  expect  me  to  see  it  in  that  light/'  replies 
he,  politely. 

"  May  I  hope  for  this  waltz  ?  "  Sir  Penthony  asks  again, 
this  time  very  coldly. 

"  Not  this  one  ;  perhaps  a  little  later  on." 

"  As  you  please,  of  course/'  returns  he,  as,  with  a  frown 
and  an  inward  determination  never  to  ask  her  again,  he 
walks  away. 

In  the  ball-room  he  meets  Luttrell,  evidently  on  the 
lookout  for  a  missing  partner. 

"Have  you  seen  Miss  Massereene  ?"  he  asks  instantly. 
"I  am  engaged  to  her,  and  can  see  her  nowhere." 

"  Try  one  of  those  nests  for  flirtation/'  replies  Stafford, 
bitterly,  turning  abruptly  away,  and  pointing  toward  the 
room  he  has  just  quitted. 

But  Luttrell  goes  in  a  contrary  direction.  Through  one 
conservatory  after  another,  through  ball-room,  supper- 
room,  tea-room,  he  searches  without  success.  There  is  no 
Molly  to  be  seen  anywhere. 

•'-  She  has  forgotten  our  engagement,"  he  thinks,  and 
feels  a  certain  pang  of  disappointment  that  it  should  be 
so.  As  he  walks,  rather  dejectedly,  into  a  last  conserva- 
tory, he  is  startled  to  find  Marcia  there  alone,  gazing 
with  silent  intentness  out  of  the  window  into  the  garden 
beneath. 

As  he  approaches  she  turns  to  meet  his  gaze.  She  is  as 
pale  as  death,  and  her  dark  eyes  are  full  of  fire.  The 
fingers  of  her  hand  twitch  convulsively. 

"  You  are  looking  for  Eleanor  ?  "  she  says,  intuitively, 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  263 

her  voice  low,  but  vibrating  with  some  hidden  emotion. 
"See,  you  will  find  her  there/' 

She  points  down  toward  the  garden  through  the  window 
where  she  has  been  standing,  and  moves  away.  Impelled 
by  the  strangeness  of  her  manner,  Luttrell  follows  her 
direction,  and,  going  over  to  the  window,  gazes  out  into 
the  night. 

It  is  a  brilliant  moonlight  night ;  the  very  stars  shine 
with  redoubled  glory  ;  the  chaste  Diana,  riding  high  in  the 
heavens,  casts  over  "tower  and  stream"  and  spreading 
parks  "a,  flood  of  silver  sheen;"  the  whole  earth  seems 
bright  as  gaudy  day. 

Beneath,  in  the  shrubberies,  pacing  to  and  fro,  are  Molly 
and  Philip  Shadwell,  evidently  in  earnest  conversation. 
Philip  at  least  seems  painfully  intent  and  eager.  They 
have  stopped,  as  if  by  one  impulse,  and  now  he  has  taken 
her  hand.  She  hardly  rebukes  him  ;  her  hand  lies  passive 
within  his  ;  and  now, — wow,  with  a  sudden  movement,  he 
has  placed  his  arm  around  her  waist. 

"  Honor  or  no  honor,"  says  Luttrell,  fiercely,  "  I  will  see 
it  out  with  her  now." 

Drawing  a  deep  breath,  he  folds  his  arms  and  leans 
against  the  window,  full  of  an  agonized  determination  to 
know  the  worst. 

Molly  has  put  up  her  hand  and  laid  it  on  Philip's  chest, 
as  though  expostulating,  but  makes  no  vehement  effort  to 
escape  from  his  embrace.  Philip,  his  face  lit  up  with  pas- 
sionate admiration,  is  gazing  down  into  the  lovely  one  so 
near  him,  that  scarcely  seems  to  shrink  from  his  open 
homage.  The  merciless,  cruel  moon,  betrays  them  all  too 
surely. 

Luttrell's  pulses  are  throbbing  wildly,  while  his  heart 
has  almost  ceased  to  beat.  Half  a  minute — that  is  a  long 
hour — passes  thus  ;  a  few  more  words  from  Philip,  an  an- 
swer from  Molly.  Oh,  that  he  could  hear  !  And  then 
Shadwell  stoops  until,  from  where  Luttrell  stands,  his  face 
seems  to  grow  to  hers. 

Tedcastle's  teeth  meet  in  his  lip  as  he  gazes  spell-bound. 
A  cold  shiver  runs  through  him,  as  when  one  learns  that 
all  one's  dearest,  most  cherished  hopes  are  trampled  in  the 
dust.  A  faint  moisture  stands  on  his  brow.  It  is  the  bit- 
terness of  death  ! 

Presently  a  drop  of  blood  trickling  slowly  down — the 
sickly  flavor  of  it  in  his  mouth — rouses  him,  Instinctively 


2G4  MOLLY  KAWN. 

he  closes  his  eyes,  as  though  too  late  to  strive  to  shut  out 
the  torturing  sight,  and,  with  a  deep  curse,  he  presses  his 
handkerchief  to  his  lips  and  moves  away  as  one  suddenly 
awakened  from  a  ghastly  dream. 

In  the  doorway  he  meets  Marcia ;  she,  too,  has  been  a 
witness  of  the  garden  scene,  and  as  he  passes  her  she  glacces 
up  at  him  with  a  curious  smile. 

"If  you  wish  to  keep  her  you  should  look  after  her/' she 
whispers,  with  white  lips. 

"If  she  needs  looking  after,  I  do  not  wish  for  her/'  he 
answers,  bitterly,  and  the  next  moment  could  kill  himself, 
in  that  he  has  been  so  far  wanting  in  loyalty  to  his  most 
disloyal  love. 

With  his  mind  quite  made  up,  he  waits  through  two 
dances  silently,  almost  motionless,  with  his  back  against'  a 
friendly  wall,  hardly  taking  note  of  anything  that  is  going 
on  around  him,  until  such  time  as  he  can  claim  another 
dance  from  Molly. 

It  comes  at  last :  and,  making  his  way  through  the 
throng  of  dancers,  he  reaches  the  spot  where,  breathless, 
smiling,  she  sits  fanning  herself,  an  adoring  partner  drop- 
ping little  honeyed  phrases  into  her  willing  ear. 

"  This  is  our  dance/'  Luttrell  says,  in  a  hard  tone,  stand- 
ing before  her,  with  compressed  lips  and  a  pale  face. 

"  Is  it  ?  "  with  a  glance  at  her  card. 

"Never  mind  your  card.  I  know  it  is  ours,"  he  says, 
and,  offering  her  his  arm,  leads  her,  not  to  the  ball-room, 
but  on  to  a  balcony,  from  which  the  garden  can  be  reached 
by  means  of  steps. 

Before  descending  he  says, — always  in  the  same  uncom- 
promising tone: 

"  Are  you  cold  ?     Shall  I  fetch  yon  a  shawl  ?  " 

And  she  answers  : 

"  No,  thank  you.  I  think  the  night  warm,"  being,  for 
the  moment,  carried  awa}'  by  the  strargeness  and  determi- 
nation of  his  manner. 

When  they  are  in  the  garden,  and  still  he  has  not  spoken, 
she  breaks  the  silence. 

<;What  is  it,  Teddy?"  she  asks,  lightly.  "I  am  all 
curiosity.  I  never  before  saw  you  look  so  angry." 

"  '  Angry  ? ' — no, — I  hardly  think  therp  is  room  foi 
anger.  I  have  brought  you  here  to  tell  you — I  will  not 
keep  to  my  engagement  with  you — an  hour  longer." 

Silence  follows  this  declaration,— a,  dead  silence,,  bro&ea 


MOLLY  SAWN.  266 

only  by  the  voices  of  the  night  and  the  faint,  sweet,  rlreamj 
sound  of  one  of  Gungl's  waltzes  as  it  steals  through  the  aii 
to  where  they  stand. 

They  have  ceased  to  move,  and  are  facing  each  other 
in  the  narrow  pathway.  A  few  beams  from  the  illumined 
house  fall  across  their  feet ;  one,  more  adventurous  than 
the  rest,  has  lit  on  Molly's  face,  and  lingers  there,  regard- 
less of  the  envious  moonbeams. 

How  changed  it  is  !  All  the  soft  sweetness,  the  gladness 
of  it,  that  characterized  it  a  moment  since,  is  gone.  All 
the  girlish  happiness  and  excitement  of  a  first  ball  have 
vanished.  She  is  cold,  rigid,  as  one  turned  to  stone.  In- 
dignation lies  within  her  lovely  eyes. 

'•'  I  admit  you  have  taken  me  by  surprise/'  she  says, 
slowly.  "It  is  customary — is  it  not? — for  the  one  who 
breaks  an  engagement  to  assign  some  reason  for  so  doing  ?  * 

"  It  is.  You  shall  have  my  reason.  Half  an  hour  ago 
I  stood  at  that  window," — pointing  to  ?t, — "  and  saw  you 
in  the  shrubberies — with — Shad  well  1 " 

"Yes?     And  then?" 

"  Then — then  V  With  a  movement  full  of  passion  he 
lays  his  hands  upon  her  shoulders  and  turns  her  slightly, 
so  that  the  ray  which  has  wandered  once  more  rests  upon 
her  face.  "Let  me  look  at  you/*  he  says;  "let  me  see 
how  bravely  you  can  carry  out  your  deception  to  its  end. 
Its  end,  mark  you  ;  for  you  shall  never  again  deceive  me. 
I  have  had  enough  of  it.  It  is  over.  My  love  for  you  has 
died." 

"Beyond  all  doubt  it  had  an  easy  death,"  replies  she, 
calmly.  "  There  could  never  have  been  much  life  in  it. 
But  all  this  is  beside  the  question.  I  have  yet  to  learn  my 
crime.  I  have  yet  to  learn  what  awful  iniquity  lies  in  the 
fact  of  my  being  with  Philip  Shadwell." 

"  You  are  wonderfully  innocent,"  with  a  sneer.  "  Do 
you  think  then  that  my  sight  failed  me  ?  " 

"  Still  I  do  not  understand,"  she  says,  drawing  herself 
up,  with  a  little  proud  gesture.  "What  is  it  to  me 
whether  you  or  all  the  world  saw  me  with  Philip  ?  Ex- 
plain yourself." 

"I  will."  In  a  low  voice,  almost  choked  with  passion 
and  despair.  "  You  will  understand  when  I  tell  you  I  saw 

him  with  his  arms  around  you — you  submitting — you 

And  then— I  saw  him— kiss  you  .  That  I  should  live  ta 
say  it  of  you !  * 


266  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

"Did  3rou  see  him  kiss  me  ?"  still  calmly.  "Youi 
eyesight  is  invaluable." 

"Ah  I  you  no  longer  deny  it?  In  your  inmost  heart 
no  doubt  you  are  laughing  at  me,  poor  fool  that  I  have 
been.  How  many  other  times  have  you  kissed  him,  I 
wonder,  when  I  was  not  by  to  see  ?  " 

"  Whatever  faults  you  may  have  had,  I  acquitted  you  of 
brutality,"  says  she,  in  a  low,  carefully  suppressed  tone. 

"  You  never  loved  me.  In  that  one  matter  at  least  you 
were  honest ;  you  never  professed  affection.  And  yet  I  was 
mad  enough  to  think  that  after  a  time  I  should  gain  the 
love  of  a  flirt, — a  coquette." 

"You  were  mad  to  care  for  the  love  of  'a  flirt, — a 
coquette/  " 

"I  have  been  blind  all  these  past  weeks,"  goes  on  he, 
unheeding,  "  determined  not  to  see  (what  all  the  rest  of  the 
world,  no  doubt,  too  plainly  saw)  what  there  was  between 
you  and  Shad  well.  But  I  am  blind  no  longer.  I  am  glad, 
— yes,  thankful,"  cries  the  young  man,  throwing  out  one 
hand,  as  though  desirous  of  proving  by  action  the  truth  of 
his  sad  falsehood, — "  thankful  I  have  found  you  out  at  last, 
— before  it  was  too  late." 

"I  am  thankful  too;  but  for  another  reason.  I  feel 
grateful  that  your  suspicions  have  caused  you  to  break  off 
our  engagement.  And  now  that  it  is  broken, — irremediably 
BO, — let  me  tell  you  that  for  once  your  priceless  sight  has 
played  you  false.  I  admit  that  Philip  placed  his  arm  around 
me  (but  not  unrebuked,  as  you  would  have  it)  ;  I  admit 
he  stooped  to  kiss  me  ;  but,"  cries  Molly,  with  sudden 
passion  that  leaves  her  pale  as  an  early  snow-drop,  "I  do 
not  admit  he  kissed  me.  Deceitful,  worthless,  flirt,  co- 
quette, as  you  think  me,  I  have  not  yet  fallen  so  low  as 
to  let  one  man  kiss  me  while  professing  to  keep  faith  with 
another." 

"You  say  this — after " 

"  I  do.  And  who  is  there  shall  dare  give  me  the  lie  ? 
Beware,  Tedcastle  ;  you  have  gone  far  enough  already.  Do 
not  go  too  far.  You  have  chosen  to  insult  me.  Be  it  so. 
I  forgive  you.  But,  for  the  future,  let  me  see,  and  hear, 
and  know  as  little  of  you  as  may  be  possible." 

"  Molly,  if  what  you  now ' 

"  Stand  back,  sir,"  cries  she,  with  an  air  of  majesty  and 
with  an  imperious  gesture,  raising  one  white  arm,  that 
gleams  like  snow  in  the  dark  night,  to  wave  him  to  one  side. 


MOLL  T  SA ITM  267 

'  ?i-om  henceforth,  remember.  I  am  deaf  when  you  address 
me!" 

She  sweeps  past  him  into  the  house,  without  further 
glance  or  word,  leaving  him,  half  mad  with  doubt  and  self- 
reproach,  to  pace  the  gardens  until  far  into  the  morning. 

When  he  does  re-enter  the  ball-room  he  finds  it  almost 
deserted.  Nearly  all  the  guests  have  taken  their  departure. 
Dancing  is  growing  half-hearted ;  conversation  is  having- 
greater  sway  with  tliose  that  still  remain. 

The  first  person  he  sees — with  Philip  beside  her — is 
Molly,  radiant,  sparkling,  even  more  than  usually  gay.  Two 
crimson  spots  burn  upon  either  cheek,  making  her  large 
eyes  seem  larger,  and  bright  as  gleaming  stars. 

Even  as  Luttrell,  with  concentrated  bitterness,  stands 
transfixed  at  some  little  distance  from  her,  realizing  how 
small  a  thing  to  her  is  this  rupture  between  them,  that  is 
threatening  to  break  his  heart,  she,  looking  up,  sees  him. 

Turning  to  her  companion,  she  whispers  something  to 
him  in  a  low  tone,  and  then  she  laughs, — a  soft,  rippling 
laugh,  full  of  mirth  and  music. 

"There  go  the  chimes  again,"  says  Mr.  Potts,  who  has 
just  come  up,  alluding  to  Molly's  little  cruel  outburst  of 
merriment.  "  I  never  saw  Miss  Massereene  in  such  good 
form  as  she  is  in  to-night.  Oh  ! " — with  a  suppressed  yawn 
— "  '  what  a  day  we're  'aving  ! '  I  wish  it  were  all  to  come 
over  again/ 

"  Plantagenet,  you  grow  daily  more  dissipated,"  says 
Cecil  Stafford,  severely.  "A  little  boy  like  you  should  be 
in  your  bed  hours  ago ;  instead  of  wnich  you  have  been 
allowed  to  sit  up  until  half-past  four,  and " 

'"  And  still  I  am  not  'appy  ?'  How  could  I  be  when 
you  did  me  out  of  that  solitary  dance  you  promised  me  ?  1 
really  believed,  when  I  asked  you  with  such  pathos  in  the 
early  part  of  the  evening  to  keep  that  one  green  spot  in 
your  memory  for  me,  you  would  have  done  so. ' 

"  Did  I  forget  you  ?  "  remorsefully.  "  Well,  don't  blame 
me.  Mr.  Lowry  would  keep  my  card  for  me,  and,  as  a 
natural  consequence,  it  was  lost.  After  that,  how  was  it 
possible  for  me  to  keep  to  my  engagements  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  was  a  delightful  ball,"  Molly  says,  with  per- 
haps a  shade  too  much  empressement.  "  I  never  in  all  my 
life  enjoved  myself  so  well." 

"  Lucky  you,"  says  Cecil.  "  Had  I  been  allowed  I  should 
perhaps  have  been  happy  too;  but"— with  a  glance  at 


BA  WN. 

Stafford,  who  is  looking  the  very  personification  of  languid 
indifference — "  when  people  allow  their  tempers  to  get  the 

better  of  them "  Here  she  pauses  with  an  eloquent 

gigh. 

"I  hope  you  are  not  alluding  to  me/'  says  Lowry,  whr 
is  at  her  elbow,  with  a  smile  that  awakes  in  Stafford  a 
mild  longing  to  strangle  him. 

"  Oh,  no  T" — sweetly.  "  How  could  you  think  it  ?  I  am 
not  ungrateful  ;  and  I  know  how  carefully  you  tried  to 
make  my  evening  a  pleasant  one." 

"If  I  succeeded  it  is  more  than  I  dare  hope  for/'  returns 
he,  in  a  low  tone,  intended  for  her  ears  alone. 

She  smiles  at  him,  and  holds  out  her  arm,  that  he  may 
refasten  the  eighth  button  of  her  glove  that  has  mysterious- 
ly come  undone.  He  rather  lingers  over  the  doing  of  it. 
He  is,  indeed,  strangely  awkward,  and  finds  an  unaccount- 
able difficulty  in  inducing  the  refractory  button  to  go  into 
its  proper  place. 

"  Shall  we  bivouac  here  for  the  remainder  of  the  night, 
or  seek  our  beds  ?  "  asks  Sir  Penthony,  impatiently.  "  1 
honestly  confess  the  charms  of  that  eldest  Miss  Millbanks 
have  completely  used  me  up.  Too  much  of  a  good  thing  is 
good  for  nothing  ;  and  she  is  tall.  Do  none  of  the  rest  of 
you  feel  fatigue  ?  I  know  women's  passion  for  conquest  is 
not  easily  satiated/' — with  a  slight  sneer — "but  at  five 
o'clock  in  .the  morning  one  might  surely  call  a  truce." 

They  agree  with  him,  and  separate,  even  the  tardiest 
guest  having  disappeared  by  this  time,  with  a  last  assurance 
of  how  intensely  they  have  enjoyed  their  evening ;  though 
when  they  reach  their  chambers  a  few  of  them  give  way  to 
such  despair  and  disappointment  as  rather  gives  the  lie  to 
their  expressions  of  pleasure. 

Poor  Molly,  in  spite  of  her  false  gayety, — put  on  to 
mask  the  wounded  pride,  the  new  sensation  of  blankness 
that  fills  her  with  dismay, — flings  herself  upon  her  bed  and 
cries  away  all  the  remaining  hours  that  rest  between  her 
and  her  maid's  morning  visit. 

"  Alas  !  how  easily  things  go  wrong  : 
A  sigh  too  much  or  a  kiss  too  long." 

For  how  much  less — for  the  mere  suspicion  of  a  kiss — have 
things  gone  wrong  with  her  ?  How  meagre  is  the  harvest 
she  has  gathered  in  from  all  her  anticipated  pleasure,  how 
poor  a  fruiiion  has  been  hers  ! 


MOLLY  BAWN.  269 

Now  that  she  and  her  lover  are  irrevocably  separated, 
she  remembers,  with  many  pangs  of  self-reproach,  how 
tender  and  true  and  honest  he  has  proved  himself  in  all  his 
dealings  with  her ;  and,  though  she  cannot  accuse  herself 
of  _  actual  active  disloyalty  toward  him,  a  hidden  voice  re- 
minds her  how  lightly  and  with  what  persistent  careless- 
ness she  accepted  all  his  love,  and  how  indifferently  she 
made  return. 

With  the  desire  to  ease  the  heartache  she  is  enduring,  she 
tries — in  vain — to  encourage  a  wrathful  feeling  toward  him, 
calling  to  mind  how  ready  he  was  to  believe  her  false,  how 
easily  he  flung  her  off,  for  what,  after  all,  was  but  a  fancied 
offense.  But  the  very  agony  of  his  face  as  he  did  so  dis- 
arms her,  recollecting  as  she  does  every  change  and  all  the 
passionate  disappointment  of  it. 

Oh  that  she  had  repulsed  Philip  on  the  instant  when 
first  he  took  her  hand,  as  it  had  been  in  her  heart  to  do  ! — 
but  for  the  misery  he  showed  that  for  the  moment  soft- 
ened her.  Mercy  on  such  occasions  is  only  cruel  kindness, 
so  she  now  thinks, — and  has  been  her  own  undoing.  And 
besides,  what  is  his  misery  to  hers  ? 

An  intense  bitterness,  a  positive  hatred  toward  Shad- 
well,  who  has  brought  all  this  discord  into  her  hitherto 
happy  life,  grows  within  her,  filling  her  with  a  most  un- 
just longing  to  see  him  as  wretched  as  he  has  unwittingly 
made  her ;  while  yet  she  shrinks  with  ever-increasing  re- 
luctance from  the  thought  that  soon  she  must  bring  herself 
to  look  again  upon  his  dark  but  handsome  face. 

Luttrell,  too, — she  must  meet  him  ;  and,  with  such  swol- 
len eyes  and  pallid  cheeks,  the  bare  idea  brings  a  little  color 
into  her  white  face. 

As  eight  o'clock  strikes,  she  rises  languidly  from  her 
bed,  dressed  as  she  is,  disrobing  hurriedly,  lest  even  her 
woman  should  guess  how  wakeful  she  had  been,  throws 
open  her  window,  and  lets  the  pure  cold  air  beat  upon  her 
features. 

But  when  Sarah  comes  she  is  not  deceived.  So  dis- 
tressed is  she  at  her  young  mistress's  appearance  that  she 
almost  weeps  aloud,  and  gives  it  as  her  opinion  that  balls 
and  all  such  nocturnal  entertainments  are  the  invention  of 
the  enemy. 


MOLLY  B AWN. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"  Ah,  starry  hope,  that  didst  arise 
But  to  be  overcast !  " — EDGAR  A.  POE. 

"  The  ring  asunder  broke." — German  Song. 

AT  breakfast  Molly  is  very  pale,  and  speaks  little.  She 
toys  with  her  toast,  but  cannot  eat.  Being  questioned,  she 
confesses  herself  fatigued,  not  being  accustomed  to  late 
hours. 

She  neither  looks  at  Luttrell,  nor  does  he  seek  to  attract 
her  attention  in  any  way. 

"  A  good  long  walk  will  refresh  you  more  than  any- 
thing," says  Talbot  Lowry,  who  has  been  spending  the  past 
few  days  at  Herst.  He  addresses  Molly,  but  his  eyes  seek 
Cecil's  as  he  does  so,  in  the  fond  hope  that  she  will  take  his 
hint  and  come  with  him  for  a  similar  refresher  to  that  he 
has  prescribed  for  Molly. 

Cecil's  unfortunate  encouragement  of  the  night  before — 
displayed  more  with  a  view  to  chagrining  Sir  Penthony 
than  from  a  mere  leaning  toward  coquetry — has  fanned  his 
passion  to  a  very  dangerous  height.  He  is  consumed  with 
a  desire  to  speak,  and  madly  flatters  himself  that  there  is 
undoubted  hope  for  him. 

To  throw  himself  at  Lady  Stafford's  feet,  declare  his 
love,  and  ask  her  to  leave,  for  him,  a  husband  who  has 
never  been  more  to  her  than  an  ordinary  acquaintance,  and 
to  renounce  a  name  that  can  have  no  charms  for  her,  being 
devoid  of  tender  recollections  or  sacred  memories,  seems 
to  him,  in  his  present  over-strained  condition,  a  very  light 
thing  indeed.  In  return,  he  argues  feverishly,  he  can  give 
her  the  entire  devotion  of  a  heart,  and,  what  is  perhaps  a 
more  practical  offer,  a  larger  income  than  she  can  now 
command. 

Then,  in  the  present  day,  what  so  easily,  or  quietly,  or 
satisfactorily  arranged,  as  "a  divorce  in  high  life,  leaVing 
behind  it  neither  spot  nor  scar,  nor  anything  unpleasant  Jti 
the  way  of  social  ostracism  ?  And  this  might — nay,  should 
— follow. 

Like  Molly,  he  has  lain  awake  since  early  dawn  arranging 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  271 

plane  and  rehearsing  speeches  ;  and  now,  after  breakfast, 
as  he  walks  beside  the  object  of  his  adoration  through  the 
shrubberies  and  outer  walks  into  the  gardens  beyond,  car- 
ried away  by  the  innate  vanity  of  him,  and  his  foolish  self- 
esteem,  and  not  dreaming  of  defeat,  he  decides  that  the 
time  has  come  to  give  voice  to  his  folly. 

They  are  out  of  view  of  the  windows,  when  he  stops 
abruptly,  and  says  rashly, — with  a  pale  face,  it  is  true,  but 
a  certain  amount  of  composure  that  bespeaks  confidence, — 
"  Cecil,  I  can  keep  silence  no  longer.  Let  me  speak  to 
you,  and  tell  you  all  that  is  in  my  heart." 

"  He  has  fallen  in  love  with  Molly/'  thinks  Cecil,  won- 
dering vaguely  at  the  manner  of  his  address,  he  having 
never  attempted  to  call  her  by  her  Christian  name  before. 

"  You  are  in  love  ?  "  she  says,  kindly,  but  rather  uncer- 
tainly, not  being  able  at  the  moment  to  call  to  mind  any 
tender  glances  of  his  cast  at  Molly  or  any  suspicious  situa- 
tions that  might  confirm  her  in  her  fancy. 

"  Need  you  ask  ?  "  says  Lowry,  taking  her  hand,  feeling 
still  further  emboldened  by  the  gentleness  with  which  she 
has  received  hh  first  advance.  "  Have  not  all  these  months 
— nay,  this  year  past — taught  you  so  much  ?  " 

" '  This  year  past  ?'"  Cecil  repeats,  honestly  at  sea,  and 
too  much  surprised  by  the  heat  of  his  manner  to  grasp  at 
once  the  real  meaning  of  his  words.  Though  I  think  a 
second  later  a  faint  inkling  of  it  comes  to  her,  because  she 
releases  her  hand  quickly  from  his  clasp,  and  her  voice 
takes  a  sharper  tone.  "  I  do  not  understand  you,"  she 
says.  "  Take  care  you  understand — yourself." 

But  the  warning  comes  too  late.  Lowry,  bent  on  hig 
own  destruction,  goes  on  vehemently : 

"1  do — too  well.  Havel  not  had  time  to  learn  it?M 
he  says,  passionately.  "  Have  I  not  spent  every  day,  every 
hour,  in  thoughts  of  you  ?  Have  I  not  lived  in  anticipa- 
tion of  our  meeting  ?  While  you,  Cecil,  surely  you,  too, 
were  glad  when  we  were  together.  The  best  year  I  have 
ever  known  has  been  this  last,  in  which  I  have  grown  to 
love  you." 

"  Pray  cease,"  says  Cecil,  hurriedly,  stepping  back  and 
raising  her  hand  imperiously.  "  "What  can  you  mean  ? 
You  must  be  out  of  your  senses  to  speak  to  me  like 
this." 

Although  angry,  she  is  calm,  and,  indeed,  scarcely  carea 
to  give  way  to  indignation  before  Lowry,  whom  she  has 


273  MOLLY  BAWN. 

always  looked  npon  with  great  kindness  and  rather  in  the 
light  of  a  boy.  She  is  a  little  sorry  for  him,  too,  that  he 
should  have  chosen  to  make  a  fool  of  himself  with  her, 
who,  she  cannot  help  feeling,  is  his  best  friend.  For  to  all 
the  moodiness  and  oddity  of  his  nature  she  has  been  sin- 
gularly lenient,  bearing  with  him  when  others  would  have 
lost  all  patience.  And  this  is  her  reward.  For  a  full 
minute  Lowry  seems  confounded.  Then,  "I  must  indeed 
be  bereft  of  reason/'  he  says,  in  a  low,  intense  voice,  "  if  I 
am  to  believe  that  you  can  receive  like  this  the  assurance 
of  my  love.  It  cannot  be  altogether  such  a  matter  of  won- 
der— my  infatuation  for  you — as  you  would  have  me  think, 
considering  how  you" — in  a  rather  choked  tone — "  led  me 
on." 

"'Led  you  on'!  My  dear  Mr.  Lowry,  hoAv  can  you 
talk  so  foolishly?  I  certainly  thought  I  knew  you  very 
well,  and" — docketing  off  each  item  on  her  fingers — "  I  let 
you  run  my  messages  now  and  then ;  and  I  danced  with 
you  ;  and  you  sent  me  the  loveliest  flowers  in  London  or 
out  of  it ;  and  you  were  extremely  kind  to  me  on  all  occa- 
sions ;  but  then  so  many  other  men  were  kind  also,  that 
really  beyond  the  flowers," — going  back  to  her  second  fin- 
ger,— "  (which  were  incomparably  finer  than  those  I  ever 
received  from  any  one  else),  I  don't  see  that  you  were  more 
to  me  than  the  others." 

"  Will  you  not  listen  to  me  ?  Will  you  not  even  let  me 
plead  my  cause  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,  considering  what  a  cause  it  is.  You 
must  be  mad." 

"You  are  cold  as  ice,"  says  he,  losing  his  head.  "  No 
other  woman  but  yourself  would  consent  to  live  as  you  do. 
A  wife,  and  yet  no  wife  ! " 

"  Mr.  Lowry,"  says  Lady  Stafford,  with  much  dignity 
but  perfect  temper,  "  you  forget  yourself.  I  must  really 
beg  you  not  to  discuss  my  private  affairs.  The  life  I  lead 
might  not  suit  you  or  any  single  one  of  your  acquaintance, 
but  it  suits  me,  and  that  is  everything.  You  say  I  am 
'  cold/  and  you  are  right :  I  am.  I  fancied  (wrongly)  my 
acknowledged  coldness  would  have  prevented  such  a  scene 
as  I  have  been  forced  to  listen  to,  by  you,  to-day.  You 
are  the  first  who  has  ever  dared  to  insult  me.  You  are, 
indeed,  the  first  man  who  has  ever  been  at  my  feet,  meta- 
phorically speaking  or  otherwise  :  and  I  sincerely  trust/' 
Lady  Stafford,  with  profound  earnestness,  "you  may 


MOLLY  BAVTtf.  &78 

be  the  last,  for  anything  more  unpleasant  I  never  expe- 
rienced." 

"Have  you  no  pity  for  me?"  cries  he,  passionately. 
*'  Why  need  you  scorn  my  love  ?  Every  word  you  utter 
tears  my  heart,  and  you, — you  care  no  more  than  if  I  were 
a  dog  !  Have  you  no  feeling  ?  Do  you  never  wish  to  be 
as  otner  women  are,  beloved  and  loving,  instead  of  being 
I  as  now " 

"  Again,  sir,  I  must  ask  you  to  allow  my  private  life  to 
be  private,''  says  Cecil,  still  with  admirable  temper,  al- 
though her  color  has  faded  a  good  deal,  and  the  fingers 
of  one  hand  have  closed  convulsively  upon  a  fold  of  he* 
dress.  "  I  may,  perhaps,  pity  you,  but  I  can  feel  nothing 
but  contempt  for  the  love  you  offer,  that  would  lower  the 
thing  it  loves  ! " 

"  Hot  lower  it,"  says  he,  quickly,  grasping  eagerly  at 
what  he  vainly  hopes  is  a  last  chance.  ' '  Under  the  circunv 
stances  a  divorce  could  be  easily  obtained.  If  you  would 
trust  yourself  to  me  there  should  be  no  delay.  You  might 
easily  break  this  marriage-tie  that  can  scarcely  be  consid- 
ered binding." 

"And  supposing — I  do  not  wish  to  break  it  ?  How 
then  ?  But  enough  of  this.  I  cannot  listen  any  longer. 
I  have  heard  too  umch  already.  I  must  really  ask  you  to 
leave  me.  Go." 

"  Is  this  how  your  friendships  end  ?  "  asks  he,  bitterly. 
"  Will  you  deny  I  was  even  so  much  to  you  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not.  Though  I  must  add  that  had  I  known 
my  friendship  with  you  would  have  put  me  in  the  way  of 
receiving  so  much  insult  as  I  have  received  to-day,  you 
should  never  have  been  placed  upon  my  list.  Let  me  pray 
you  to  go  away  now,  to  leave  Herst  entirely  for  the  present, 
because  it  would  be  out  of  the  question  my  seeing  you 
again, — at  least  until  time  has  convinced  you  of  your  folly. 
You  are  an  old  friend,  Talbot,  and  I  would  willingly  try 
and  forget  all  that  has  happened  to-day,  or  at  all  events  to 
remember  it  only  as  a  passing  madness." 

"  Am  I  a  boy,  a  fool,  that  you  speak  to  me  like  this  ?  " 
cries  he,  catching  her  hand  to  detain  her  as  she  moves  away. 
"  And  why  dp  you  talk  of  'insult'?  I  only  urge  you  to 
exchange  indifference  for  love, — the  indifference  of  a  hus- 
band who  cares  no  more  for  you  than  for  the  gravel  at 
your  feet." 

•'And   pray,   sir,   by   what  rule  do  you   measure   the 


274  MOLL  y  BA  WN. 

amount  of  my  regard  for  Lady  Stafford  ? "  exclaims  Sfa 
Penthony,  walking  through  an  open  space  in  the  privet 
hedge  that  skirts  this  corner  of  the  garden,  where  he  has 
been  spell-bound  for  the  last  two  minutes.  A  short  time, 
no  doubt,  though  a  great  deal  can  be  said  in  it. 

He  is  positively  livid,  and  has  his  eyes  fixed,  not  on  his 
enemy,  but  on  his  wife. 

Lowry  changes  color,  but  gives  way  not  an  inch ;  he 
also  tightens  his  grasp  on  Cecil's  unwilling  hand,  and  throws 
up  his  head  defiantly. 

"Let  my  wife's  hand  go  directly,"  says  Stafford,  in  a 
low  but  furious  tone,  advancing. 

By  a  quick  movement  Cecil  wrenches  herself  free  and 
gets  between  the  two  men.  She  does  not  fling  herself, 
she  simply  gets  there,  almost — as  it  seems — without 
moving. 

"Not  another  word,  Sir  Penthony,"  she  says,  quietly. 
"  I  forbid  it.  I  will  have  no  scene.  Mr.  Lowry  nas  be- 
haved foolishly,  but  I  desire  that  nothing  more  be  said 
about  it.  Go," — turning  to  Lowry,  who  is  frowning 
ominously,  and  pointing  imperiously  to  a  distant  gate, — 
"and  do  as  I  asked  you  a  few  moments  since, — leave  Herst 
without  delay." 

So  strong  is  her  determination  to  avoid  an  esclandre, 
and  so  masterly  is  her  manner  of  carrying  out  her  will, 
£hat  both  men  instinctively  obey  her.  Sir  Penthony  lowers 
his  eyes  and  shifts  his  aggressive  position  ;  Lowry,  with 
bent  head,  and  without  another  word,  walks  away  from  her 
down  the  garden-path  out  of  the  gate,  and  disappears — for 
years. 

When  he  has  quite  gone,  Sir  Penthony  turns  to  her. 

"  Is  this  the  way  you  amuse  yourself  ?  "  he  asks,  in  & 
compressed  voice. 

"  Do  not  reproach  me,"  murmurs  she,  hurriedly  ;  ' '  1 
could  not  bear  it  now."  She  speaks  clearly,  but  her  tone 
has  lost  its  firmness,  because  of  the  little  tremor  that  runs 
through  it,  while  her  face  is  white  as  one  of  the  pale  blos- 
soms she  holds  within  her  hand.  "  Besides,  it  is  not  de- 
served. Where  you  long  here  before  you  spoke  ?  " 

"  Long  enough."     With  a  world  of  meaning  in  his  tone. 

"  Then  you  heard  my  exculpation.  '  Cold  as  ice,'  he 
called  me.  And  he  was  right.  As  I  am  to  you,  Sir  Pen- 
thony, so  am  I  to  all  men.  No  one  yet  has  touched  my 
heart." 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  275 

"For  myself  I  can  answer,"  replies  he,  bitterly;  "but 
for  the  others " 

"Not  another  word/'  she  breaks  in,  vehemently.  "Do 
not  say — do  not  even  hint  at — what  I  might  find  it  impos- 
sible to  forgive.  Not  even  to  you  will  I  seek  to  justify  my- 
self on  such  e.  point.  And  you,"  she  says,  tears  of  agita- 
tion arising  from  all  she  has  undergone,  mingled  with 
much  pent-up  wounded  feeling,  coming  thickly  into  hei 
eyes,  "you  should  be  the  last  to  blame  me  for  what  has 
happened,  when  you  remember  who  it  was  placed  me  in 
such  a  false  position  as  makes  men  think  they  may  say  to 
me  what  they  choose." 

"  You  are  unjust/"  he  answers,  nearly  as  white  as  her- 
6£?.f.  "  I  only  followed  out  your  wishes.  It  was  your  own 
Arrangement ;  I  but  acceded  to  it." 

"  You  should  not  have  done  so,"  cries  she,  with  subdued 
excitement.  "You  were  a  man  of  the  world,  capable  of 
judging ;  I  was  a  foolish  girl,  ignorant  of  the  consequences 
that  must  follow  on  such  an  act.  Our  marriage  was  a 
wretched  mistake." 

"  Cecil,  you  know  you  can  escape  from  your  false 
position  as  soon  as  you  choose.  No  one  loves  you  as 
I  do." 

"Impossible."  Coldly.  "In  this  world  a  thing  once 
done  can  never  be  undone.  Have  you  lived  so  long  with- 
out learning  that  lesson  ?  " 

As  she  speaks  she  turns  from  him,  and,  walking  quickly 
away,  leaves  him  alone  in  the  garden.  Much  as  he  has 
grown  to  love  her,  never  until  now  has  the  very  tenderness 
of  affection  touched  him, — now,  when  the  laughter-loving 
Cecil  has  changed  for  him  into  the  feeling,  accusing 
woman ;  although  a  woman  dead  to  him,  with  a  heart 
locked  carefully,  lest  he  should  enter  it. 

How  can  he  tell,  as  she  goes  so  proudly  along  the 
garden-path,  that  her  bosom  is  heaving  with  shame  and 
unconfessed  longing,  and  that  down  her  cheeks — so  prone 
to  dimple  with  joyous  laughter — the  bitter  tears  are  fall- 
ing? 

Almost  as  she  reaches  the  house  she  encounters  Ted- 
castle,  and  turns  hastily  aside,  lest  he  should  mark  the 
traoss  of  her  recent  weeping.  But  so  bent  is  he  on  his  own 
dismal  thoughts  that  he  heeds  her  not,  but  follows  aim- 
lessly the  path  before  him  that  leads  to  the  balcony  from 
which,  the  smaller  drawing-room  may  be  reached. 


376  MOLL  Y  BA  WX 

He  is  depressed  and  anxious,  the  night's  vigil  having  in- 
duced him  to  believe  himself  somewhat  hasty  in  his  con- 
demnation of  Molly.  As  he  gains  the  boudoir  he  starts, 
for  there  in  the  room,  with  the  light  flashing  warmly  upon 
her,  stands  Molly  Bawn  alone. 

She  is  dressed  in  a  long  trailing  gown  of  black  velveteen, 
— an  inexpensive  dress,  but  one  that  suits  her  admirably, 
with  its  slight  adornment  of  little  soft  lace  frillings  at  the 
throat  and  wrists.  Pausing  irresolutely,  Luttrell  makes  as 
though  he  would  retrace  his  steps. 

"  Do  not  go/'  says  Molly's  voice,  clear  and  firm.  "  As 
you  are  here,  I  wish  to  speak  to  you." 

She  beckons  him  to  come  a  little  nearer  to  her,  and 
silently  he  obeys  the  gesture.  There  is  a  small  round  table 
between  them,  upon  which  Molly  is  leaning  rather  heavily. 
As  he  approaches,  however,  and  waits,  gazing  curiously  at 
her  for  her  next  word,  she  straightens  herself  and  compels 
her  eyes  to  meet  his. 

"Here  is  your  ring,"  she  says,  drawing  the  glittering 
treasure  from  her  finger  and  placing  it  before  him. 

There  is  not  the  extremest  trace  of  excitement  or  feeling 
of  any  kind  in  her  tone.  Luttrell,  on  the  contrary,  shrinks 
as  though  touched  by  fire. 

"Keep  it,"  he  says,  involuntarily,  coloring  darkly. 

"No— no." 

"  Why  ?  "  he  urges.  "  It  will  not  hurt  you,  and  " — with 
a  quickly-suppressed  sigh — "  it  may  perhaps  compel  you  to 
think  of  me  now  and  then/' 

"  I  have  neither  wish  nor  desire  ever  to  think  of  you 
again,"  returns  she,  still  in  the  same  cold,  even  tone,  push- 
ing the  ring  still  closer  to  him  with  her  first  finger.  There 
is  something  of  contempt  in  the  action.  A  ray  from  tht 
dancing  sun  outside  falls  through  the  glass  on  to  the 
diamonds,  making  them  flash  and  sparkle  in  their  gold 
setting. 

"  That  admits  of  no  answer,"  says  Luttrell,  with  low  but 
passionate  bitterness  ;  and,  taking  up  the  ring,  he  flings  it 
lightly  into  the  very  heart  of  the  glowing  fire. 

With  a  sudden  loss  of  self-restraint  Molly  makes  a  move- 
ment forward  as  though  to  prevent  him ;  but  too  late, — 
already  the  greedy  flames  have  closed  upon  it. 

Not  all  the  agitation,  not  all  his  angry  words  of  the  night 
before,  have  affected  her  so  keenly  as  this  last  act.  She 
bursts  into  a  very  storm  of  tears. 


MOLLY  BAWN.  377 

"  Uh  !  what  have  you  done  ? "  cries  she.  "  Ton  have 
destroyed  it ;  yon  have  burned  it, — my  pretty  ring  ! " 

She  clasps  her  hands  together,  and  gazes  with  straining 
eyes  into  the  cruel  fire.  Something  within  her  heart  feels 
broken.  Surely  some  string  has  snapped.  The  ring,  in 
spite  of  all,  was  a  last  link  between  them  ;  and  now,  too,  it 
has  gone. 

"  Molly  ! "  says  he,  taking  a  step  toward  her,  and  hold- 
ing out  his  hands,  softened,  vanquished  by  her  tears, 
ready  to  throw  himself  once  more  an  abject  slave  at  her 
feet. 

"  Do  not  speak  to  me,"  returns  she,  still  sobbing  bit- 
terly. "  Have  you  not  done  enough  ?  I  wish  you  would 
leave  me  to  myself.  Go  away.  There  is  nothing  more  that 
you  can  do." 

Feeling  abashed,  he  scarcely  knows  why,  he  silently 
quits  the  room. 

Then  down  upon  her  knees  before  the  fire  falls  Molly, 
and  with  the  poker  strives  with  all  her  might  to  discover 
some  traces  of  her  lost  treasure.  So  diligent  is  her  search 
that  after  a  little  while  the  ring,  blackened,  disfigured, 
altered  almost  beyond  recognition,  lies  within  her  hand. 
Still  it  is  her  ring,  however  changed,  and  some  small  ray  of 
comfort  gladdens  her  heart. 

She  is  still,  however,  weeping  bitterly,  and  examining 
sadly  the  precious  relic  she  has  rescued  from  utter  oblivion, 
and  from  which  the  diamond,  soiled,  but  still  brilliant,  has 
fallen  into  her  palm,  when  Philip  enters. 

"  Molly,  what  has  happened  ?  "  he  asks,  advancing  toward 
her,  shocked  at  her  appearance,  which  evinces  all  the  deepest 
signs  of  woe.  "  What  has  distressed  you  ?  " 

"You  have/'  cries  she,  with  sudden  vehement  passion, 
all  her  sorrow  and  anger  growing  into  quick  life  as  she  sees 
him.  "  You  are  the  cause  of  all  my  misery.  Why  do  you 
come  near  me  ?  You  might,  at  least,  have  grace  enough  to 
spare  me  the  pain  of  seeing  you." 

" I  do  not  understand/'  he  says, his  face  very  pale.  "In 
how  have  I  offended, — I,  who  would  rather  be  dead  than 
cause  you  any  unhappiness  ?  Tell  rne  how  I  have  been  so 
unfortunate." 

"  I  hate  you/''  she  says,  with  almost  childish  cruelty, 
sobbing  afresh.  "I  wish  you  had  died  before  I  came  to 
this  place.  You  have  come  between  me  and  the  only  man 
I  love.  Yes/" — smiting  her  hands  together  in  a  very 


378  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

agony  of  sorrow, — "  he  may  doubt  it  if  he  will,  but  I  do 
love  him  ;  and  now  we  are  separated  forever.  Even  my 
ring  " — with  a  sad  glance  at  it — "  is  broken,  and  so  is — my 
heart." 

"  You  are  alluding  to — Luttrell  ?  "  asks  he, — his  earliest 
suspicions  at  last  confirmed, — speaking  with  difficulty,  so 
dry  his  lips  have  grown. 

"lam." 

"'And  how  have  I  interfered  between  you  and — him  ?" 

"  Why  did  you  speak  to  me  of  love  again  last  night,"  re- 
torts she,  "when  you  must  know  how  detestable  a  subject  it 
is  to  me  ?  He  saw  you  put  your  arm  around  me  ;  he  saw 
— ah  !  why  did  I  not  tell  you  then  the  truth  (from  which 
through  a  mistaken  feeling  of  pity  I  refrained),  that  your 
mere  touch  sickened  me?  Then  you  stooped,  and  he 
thought — you  know  what  he  thought— and  yet,"  cries  Molly, 
with  a  gesture  of  aversion,  "  how  could  he  have  thought 
it  possible  that  I  should  allow  you  of  all  men  to — kiss 
me?" 

"Why  speak  of  what  I  so  well  know  ?"  interrupts  he 
hoarsely,  with  bent  head  and  averted  eyes.  "  You  seldom 
spare  me.  You  are  angered,  and  for  what  ?  Because  you 
still  hanker  after  a  man  who  flung  you  away, — you,  for 
whose  slightest  wish  I  would  risk  my  all.  For  a  mere 
chimera,  a  fancy,  a  fear  only  h^lf  developed,  he  renounced 
you." 

"  Say  nothing  more,"  says  Molly,  with  pale  lips  and  eyes 
large  and  dark  through  regretful  sorrow ;  "  not  another 
word.  I  think  he  acted  rightly.  He  thought  I  was  false, 
and  so  thinking  he  was  right  to  renounce.  I  do  not  say 

this  in  his  defense  or  because — or  for  any  reason  only 

She  pauses. 

"  Why  not  continue  ?    Because  you — love  him  still." 

"Well,  and  why  not?"  says  Molly.  "Why  should  I 
deny  my  love  for  him  ?  Can  any  shame  be  connected  with 
it  ?  Yes,"  murmurs  she,  her  sweet  eyes  filling  with  tears, 
her  small  clasped  hands  trembling,  "  though  he  and  I  can 
never  be  more  to  each  other  than  we  now  are,  I  tell  you  I 
love  him  as  I  never  have  and  never  shall  love  again." 

"  It  is  a  pity  that  such  love  as  yours  should  have  no  bet- 
ter return,"  says  he,  with  an  unlovely  laugh.  "  Luttrell 
appears  to  bear  his  fate  with  admirable  equanimity." 

"You  are  incapable  of  judging  such  a  nature  as  his,"* 
seturns  she,  disdainfully.  "He  is  all  that  is  gentle,  and 


MOLLY  BAWN.  279 

true,  and  noble  :  while  you "  She  stops  abruptly,  caus- 
ing a  pause  that  is  more  eloquent  than  words,  and,  with  a 
distant  bow,  hurries  from  the  room. 

Philip's  star  to  day  is  not  in  the  ascendant.  Even  as  he 
stands  crushed  by  Molly's  bitter  reproaches,  Marcia,  with 
her  heart  full  of  a  settled  revenge  toward  him,  is  waiting 
outside  her  grandfather's  door  for  permission  to  enter. 

That  unlucky  shadow  of  a  kiss  last  night  has  done  as 
much  mischief  as  half  a  dozen  real  kisses.  It  has  convinced 
Marcia  of  the  truth  of  that  which  for  weeks  she  has  been 
vainly  struggling  to  disbelieve,  namely,  Philip's  mad  infat- 
uation for  Molly. 

Now  all  doubt  is  at  an  end,  and  in  its  place  has  fallen  a 
despair  more  terrible  than  any  uncertainty. 

All  the  anguish  of  a  heart  rejected,  that  is  still  com- 
pelled to  live  on  loving  its  rejector,  has  been  hers  for  the 
past  two  months,  and  it  has  told  upon  her  slowly  but  surely. 
She  is  strangely  altered.  Dark  hollows  lay  beneath  her 
eyes,  that  have  grown  almost  unearthly  in  expression,  so 
large  are  they,  and  so  sombre  is  the  fire  that  burns  within 
them.  There  is  a  compression  about  the  lips  that  has  grown 
habitual  ;  small  lines  mar  the  whiteness  of  her  forehead, 
while  among  her  raven  tresses,  did  any  one  mark  them 
closely  enough,  fine  threads  of  silver  may  be  traced. 

Pacing  up  and  down  her  room  the  night  before,  with 
widely-opened  eyes,  gazing  upon  the  solemn  blackness  that 
surrounds  her,  all  the  wrongs  and  slights  she  has  endured 
come  to  her  with  startling  distinctness.  No  sense  of  weari- 
ness, no  thought  of  a  necessity  for  sleep,  disturbs  her  reverie 
or  breaks  in  upon  the  monotonous  misery  of  her  musings. 
She  is  past  all  that.  Already  her  death  has  come  to  her, — 
a  death  to  her  hope,  and  joy,  and  peace, — even  to  that  poor 
calm  that  goes  so  far  to  deceive  the  outer  world. 

Oh,  the  cold,  quiet  night,  when  speech  is  not  and  sleep 
has  forgotten  us  !  when  all  the  doubts  and  fears  and  jeal- 
ousies that  in  the  blessed  daylight  slumber,  rise  up  to  torture 
us  when  even  the  half -suspected  sneer,  the  covert  neglect, 
that  some  hours  ago  were  but  as  faintest  pin-pricks,  now 
gall  and  madden  as  a  poisoned  thrust ! 

A  wild  thirst  for  revenge  grows  within  her  breast  as  one 
by  one  she  calls  to  mind  all  the  many  injuries  she  has  re- 
ceived. Strangely  enough, — and  unlike  a  woman, — her 
anger  is  concentrated  on  Philip,  rather  than  on  the  one  he 
loves,  instinct  telling  her  he  is  not  beloved  in  return. 


380  MOLL  Y  3 A  Wtf. 

She  broods  upon  her  wrongs  until,  as  the  first  bright 
streak  of  yellow  day  illumes  the  room,  flinging  its  glories 
profusely  upon  the  wall  and  ceiling,  pretty  knickknacks  that 
return  its  greeting,  and  angry,  unthankful  creature  alike, 
a  thought  comes  to  her  that  promises  to  amply  satisfy  her 
vengeful  craving.  As  she  ponders  on  it  a  curious  light 
breaks  upon  her  face,  a  smile  half  triumph,  half  despair. 


Now,  standing  before  her  grandfather's  room,  with  a 
folded  letter  crushed  within  her  palm,  and  a  heart  that 
beats  almost  to  suffocation,  she  hears  him  bid  her  enter. 

Fatigued  by  the  unusual  exertions  of  a  ball,  Mr.  Am- 
herst  is  seated  at  his  table  in  a  lounging-chair,  clad  in  his 
dressing-gown,  and  looking  older,  feebler,  than  is  his  wont. 

He  merely  glances  at  his  visitor  as  she  approaches,  with- 
out comment  of  any  description. 

"  I  have  had  something  on  my  mind  for  some  time, 
grandpapa/'  begins  Marcia,  who  is  pale  and  worn,  through 
agitation  and  the  effects  of  a  long  and  hopeless  vigil.  "  I 
think  it  only  right  to  let  you  know.  I  have  suppressed  it 
all  this  time,  because  I  feared  distressing  you  ;  but  now — 
now — will  you  read  this  ?  " 

She  hands  him,  as  she  speaks,  the  letter  received  by 
Philip  two  months  before  relative  to  his  unlucky  dealings 
with  some  London  Jews. 

In  silence  Mr.  Amherst  reads  it,  in  silence  re-reads  it, 
and  finally,  folding  it  up  again,  places  it  within  his  desk. 

"You  and  Philip  have  quarreled  ?"  he  says,  presently, 
in  a  quiet  tone. 

"No,  there  has  been  no  quarrel." 

•'  Your  engagement  is  at  an  end  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  And  is  this  the  result  of  last  night's  vaunted  pleas- 
ures ?  "  asks  he,  keenly.  "  Have  you  snatched  only  pain 
and  a  sense  of  failure  from  its  fleeting  hours?  And 
Eleanor,  too, — she  was  pale  at  luncheon,  and  for  once 
silent, — has  she  too  found  her  coveted  fruit  rotten  at  its 
core  ?  It  is  the  universal  law,"  says  the  old  man,  grimly, 
consoling  himself  with  a  pinch  of  snuff,  taken  with  much 
deliberation  from  an  exquisite  Louis  Quinze  box  that 
rests  at  his  elbow,  and  leaning  back  languidly  in  his  chair. 
"  Lite  is  made  up  of  hopes  false  as  the  ignis-fatuus.  When 


MOLL  Y  EA  TT.V.  2S 1 

with  the  greatest  sense  of  security  aiid  promise  of  en- 
joyment we  raise  and  seek  to  drain  the  cup  of  pleasure, 
while  yet  Ave  gaze  with  longing  eyes  upon  its  sparkling 
bubbles,  and,  stooping  thirstily,  suffer  our  expectant  lips 
at  length  to  touch  it,  lo  !  it  is  then,  just  as  we  have  at- 
tained to  the  summit  of  our  bliss,  we  find  our  sweetest 
draught  has  turned  to  ashes  in  our  mouth." 

He  stops  and  drums  softly  on  the  table  for  a  moment  or 
two,  while  Marcia  stands  before  him  silently  pondering. 

"  So  Philip  is  already  counting  on  my  death,"  he  goes 
on,  meditatively,  still  softly  tapping  the  table.  "  How 
securely  he  rests  in  the  belief  of  his  succession  !  His 
father's  son  could  scarcely  fail  to  be  a  spendthrift,  and  I 
will  have — no — prodigal  at  Herst — to  hew — and  cut — and 
scatter.  A  goodly  heritage,  truly,  as  Buscarlet  called  it. 
Be  satisfied,  Marcia  :  your  revenge  is  complete.  Philip 
shall  not  inherit  Herst." 

"  I  do  not  seek  revenge,"  says  Marcia,  unsteadily,  now 
her  wish  is  fulfilled  and  Philip  hopelessly  crushed,  a  cold, 
troubled  faintness  creeping  round  her  heart.  An  awful 
sense  of  despair,  a  fruitless  longing  to  recall  her  action, 
makes  her  tremble.  "  Only  I  could  not  bear  to  see  you 
longer  deceived, — you,  after  all  the  care — the  trouble — 
you  bestowed  upon  him.  My  conscience  compelled  me  to 
tell  you  all." 

"  And  you,  Marcia," — with  an  odd  smile  she  is  puzzled 
to  explain, — "  you  have  never  deceived  me,  have  you  ? 
All  your  pretty  speeches  and  tender  cares  have  been  quite 
sincere  ?" 

"  Dear  grandpapa,  yes." 

"You  have  not  wished  me  dead,  or  spoken  or  thought 
evilly  of  the  old  tyrant  at  Herst,  who  has  so  often  crossed 
and  thwarted  you  ?" 

"  Never,  dear  :  how  could  I — when  I  remember " 

"  Ay,  quite  so.  When  one  remembers  !  And  gratitude 
is  so  common  a  thing.  Will  you  oblige  me  by  sending  a 
line  to  Mr.  Buscarlet,  asking  him  to  come  to  me  without 
delay?" 

"  You  are  going  to  alter  your  will  ?  "  she  asks,  faintly, 
shocked  at  the  speedy  success  of  her  scheme. 

"  Yes,"  coolly.     "  I  am  going  to  cut  Philip  out  of  it." 

"Grandpapa^  do  not  be  too  hard  on  him,"  she  says, 
putting  her  hand  across  her  throat,  and  almost  gasping. 
"  He  is  young.  Young  men.  sometimes " 


382  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

( 

"  I  was  once  a  young  man  myself,  you  seem  to  forget, 
and  I  know  all  about  it.  Why  did  you  give  me  that 
letter  ?"  he  asks,  grimly.  "Are  you  chicken-hearted,  now 
you  have  done  the  deed,  like  all  women  ?  It  is  too  late  for 
remorse  to  be  of  use :  you  have  done  it.  Let  it  be  your 
portion  to  remember  how  you  have  willfully  ruined  his  pros- 
pects." 

•f  A  choking  sigh  escapes  her  as  she  quits  the  room.  Truly 
she  has  bought  her  revenge  dearly.  Not  the  poorest  trace 
of  sweetness  lingers  in  it. 


By  this  time  it  will  be  perceived  that  the  house  is  in  a 
secret  turmoil.  Every  one  is  at  daggers  drawn  with  every 
one  else.  Molly  and  Lady  Stafford  have  as  yet  exchanged 
no  confidences,  though  keenly  desirous  of  doing  so,  each 
having  noticed  with  the  liveliest  surmisings  the  depression 
of  the  other. 

Mr.  Potts  alone,  who  is  above  suspicion  (being  one  of 
those  cheerful  people  who  never  see  anything — no  matter 
how  closely  under  their  noses — until  it  is  brought  before 
them  in  the  broadest  language),  continues  blissfully  uncon- 
scious of  the  confusion  that  reigns  around,  and  savors  his 
conversation  throughout  the  evening  with  as  many  embar- 
rassing remarks  as  he  can  conveniently  put  in. 

•'  Eaten  bread  is  soon  forgotten/'  says  he,  sententiously, 
during  a  pause.  "  You  all  seem  strangety  oblivious  of  the 
fact  that  last  night  there  was  a  ball  in  this  house.  Why 
shirk  the  subject  ?  I  like  talking,"  says  Mr.  Potts,  super- 
fluously, "and  surely  you  must  all  have  something  to  com- 
municate concerning  it.  Thanks  to  our  own  exertions,  1 
think  it  was  as  good  a  one  as  ever  I  was  at ;  and  the  old 
boy  " — (I  need  scarcely  say  Mr.  Amherst  has  retired  to 
rest) — was  uncommon  decent  about  giving  us  the  best 
champagne." 

"You  took  very  good  care  to  show  him  how  you  appre- 
ciated his  hospitality,"  says  Sir  Penthony,  mildly. 

"  Well,  why  shouldn't  I  do  honor  to  the  occasion  ?  A 
ball  at  Herst  don't  come  every  day.  As  a  rule,  an  affair  of 
the  kind  at  a  country  house  is  a  failure,  as  the  guests  quar- 
rel dreadfully  among  themselves  next  day ;  but  ours"  has 
been  a  brilliant  exception." 

"  Brilliant  indeed,"  says  Lady  Stafford,  demurely. 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN,  283 

"But  what  became  of  Lowry  ?"  demands  this  wretched 
young  man,  who  has  never  yet  learned  that  silence  ia 
golden.  "  He  told  me  this  morning  he  intended  staying 
on  until  the  end  of  the  week,  and  off  he  goes  to  London  by 
the  midday  train  without  a  word  of  warning.  Must  have 
heard  some  unpleasant  news,  I  shouldn't  wonder,  he  looked 
so  awfully  cut  up.  Did  he  tell  you  anything  about  it  ?  * 
To  Lady  Stafford. 

" No."  In  a  freezing  tone.  "  I  see  no  reason  why  I,  in 
particular,  should  be  bored  by  Mr.  Lowry's  private  woes. " 

"  Well,  you  were  such  a  friend,  you  know,  for  one 
thing,"  says  Potts,  surprised,  but  obtuse  as  ever. 

"So  I  am  of  yours  ;  but  I  sincerely  trust  the  fact  of  my 
being  so  will  not  induce  you  to  come  weeping  to  me  when- 
ever you  chance  to  lose  your  heart  or  place  all  your  money 
on  the  wrong  horse." 

"Did  he  lose  his  money,  then  ?" 

"  Plantagenet,  dancing  has  muddled  your  brain.  How 
should  I  know  whether  he  lost  his  money  or  not  ?  I  am 
merely  supposing.  You  are  dull  to-night.  Come  and  play 
a  game  at  ecart6  with  me,  to  see  if  it  may  rouse  you." 

They  part  for  the  night  rather  earlier  than  usual,  plead- 
ing fatigue, — all  except  Mr.  Potts,  who  declares  himself 
fresh  as  a  daisy,  and  proposes  an  impromptu  dance  in  the 
ball-room.  He  is  instantly  snubbed,  and  retires  gracefully, 
consoling  himself  with  the  reflection  that  he  has  evidently 
more  "go"  in  his  little  finger  than  they  can  boast  in  their 
entire  bodies. 

Sir  Penthony  having  refused  to  acknowledge  his  wife's 
parting  salutation, — meant  to  conciliate, — Cecil  retires  to 
her  room  in  a  state  of  indignation  and  sorrow  that  reduces 
her  presently  to  tears. 

Her  maid,  entering  just  as  she  has  reached  the  very 
highest  pinnacle  of  her  wrongs,  meets  with  anything  but  a 
warm  reception. 

"How  now,  Trimmins?  Did  I  ring?"  asks  she,  with 
unwonted  sharpness,  being  unpleasantly  mindful  of  the 
redness  of  her  eyes. 

"  No,  my  lady  ;  but  I  thought " 

"Never  think,"  says  Cecil,  interrupting  her  with  un- 
reasoning irritation. 

"No,  my  lady.  I  only  thought  perhaps  you  would  see 
Miss  Massereene,"  persists  Trimmins,  meekly.  "  She  wishes 
to  know,  with  her  love,  if  you  can  receive  her  now," 


284  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

"  Miss  Massereene  ?  Of  course  I  can.  Why  did  you  not 
say  so  before  ?  " 

"  Your  ladyship  scarcely  gave  me  time/'  says  Trimmins, 
demurely,  taking  an  exhaustive  survey  of  her  cambric 
apron. 

11  True  ;  I  was  hasty,"  Cecil  acknowledges,  in  her  impul- 
sive, honest,  haughty  way.  "  Tell  Miss  Massereene  I  shall 
be  delighted  to  see  her  at  once." 

Presently  Molly  enters,  her  eyelids  pink,  the  corners  of 
her  mouth'  forlornly  curved,  a  general  despondency  in  her 
whole  demeanor. 

Cecil,  scarcely  more  composed,  advances  to  meet  her. 

"  Why,  Molly  ! "  she  says,  pathetically. 

"  You  have  been  crying,"  says  Molly,  in  the  same  breath, 
throwing  herself  into  ner  arms. 

"  I  have  indeed,  my  dear,"  confesses  Cecil,  in  a  lachry- 
mose tone,  and  then  she  begins  to  cry  again,  and  Molly  fol- 
lows suit,  and  for  the  next  five  minutes  they  have  a  very 
comfortable  time  of  it  together. 

Then  they  open  their  hearts  to  each  other  and  relate 
fluently,  as  only  a  woman  can,  all  the  intolerable  wrongs 
and  misjudgment  they  have  undergone  at  the  hands  of 
their  lovers. 

1  *'  To  accuse  me  of  anything  so  horrible  ! "  says  Molly, 
indignantly.  "  Oh,  Cecil !  I  don't  believe  he  could  care 
for  me  one  bit  and  suspect  me  of  it." 

"  '  Care  for  you  ! '  Nonsense,  my  dear  !  he  adores  you. 
That  is  precisely  why  he  has  made  such  a  fool  of  himself. 

•\r         i 

You  know — 

Trifles  light  as  air, 

Are  to  the  jealous  confirmations  strong 
As  proofs  of  holy  writ. 

I  like  a  man  to  be  jealous, — in  reason.  Though  when 
Sir  Penthony  walked  out  from  behind  that  hedge,  looking 
as  if  he  could,  with  pleasure,  devour  me  and  Talbot  at  a 
bite,  I  confess  I  could  gladly  have  dispensed  with  the 
quality  in  him.  You  should  have  seen  his  face  :  for  once 
I  was  honestly  frightened." 

"  Poor  Cecil !  it  must  have  been  a  shock.  And  all  be- 
cause that  tiresome  young  man  wouldn't  go  away." 

"  Just  so.  All  might  have  been  well  had  he  only  seen 
things  in  a  reasonable  light.  Oh,  I  was  so  angry  !  The 
most  charming  of  your  charms,  Molly."  says  Cecil,  warmly, 
- '  is  your  ability  to  sympathize  with  one.  You  can  feel  ae 


MOLL  V   BA  WM  286 

thoroughly  with  and  for  me;  and  you  never  season  your 
remarks  with  unpalatable  truths.  You  never  say,  '  I  told 
you  so,'  or  'I  knew  how  it  would  be,'  or  'didn't  I  warn 
you  ? '  or  anything  else  equally  objectionable.  I  really 
would  rather  a  person  boxed  my  ears  outright  than  give 
way  to  such  phrases  arf  those,  pretending  they  know  all 
about  a  catastrophe,  after  it  has  happened.  And,"  says  her 
ladyship,  with  a  pensive  sigh,  "you  might  perhaps  (had 
you  so  chosen)  have  accused  me  of  flirting  a  leetle  bit  with 
that  stupid  Talbot." 

"  Well,  indeed,  perhaps  I  might,  dear,"  says  Molly,  inno- 
cently. 

"  What,  are  you  going  to  play  the  traitor  after  all  that 
flattery  ?  and  if  so,  what  am  I  to  say  to  you  about  your 
disgraceful  encouragement  of  Captain  Shadwell  ?  " 

"I  wonder  if  I  did  encourage  him?"  says  Molly,  con- 
tritely. ' '  At  first,  perhaps  unconsciously,  but  lately  I  am 
sure  I  didn't.  Do  you  know,  Cecil,  I  positively  dislike 
him  ?  he  is  so  dark  and  silent,  and  still  persistent.  But 
when  a  man  keeps  on  saying  he  is  miserable  for  love  of 
you,  and  that  you  are  the  cause  of  all  his  distress,  and  that 
he  would  as  soon  be  dead  as  alive,  because  you  cannot 
return  his  affection,  how  can  one  help  feeling  a  little  sorry 
for  him?" 

"  I  don't  feel  in  the  least  sorry  for  Talbot.  I  thought 
him  extremely  unpleasant  and  impertinent,  and  I  hope 
with  all  my  heart  he  is  very  unhappy  to-night,  because  it 
will  do  him  good." 

' '  Cecil,  how  crwel  you  are  ! " 

"  Well,  by  what  right  does  he  go  about  making  fierce 
love  to  married  women,  compelling  them  to  listen  to  his 
nonsense  whether  they  like  it  or  not,  and  getting  them  into 
scrapes  ?  I  don't  break  my  heart  over  Sir  Penthony,  but  I 
certainly  do  not  wish  him  to  think  badly  of  me." 

"  At  least,"  says  Molly,  relapsing  again  into  the  blues, 
"  you  have  this  consolation  :  you  cannot  lose  Sir  Pen- 
thony." 

"  That  might  also  be  looked  on  as  a  disadvantage.  Still, 
I  suppose  there  is  some  benefit  to  be  gained  from  my  posi- 
tion," says  Cecil,  meditatively.  "  My  lover  (if  indeed  he 
is  my  lover)  cannot  play  the  false  knight  with  me  ;  I  defy 
him  to  love — and  to  ride  away.  There  are  no  breakers 
ahead  for  me.  He  is  mine  irrevocably,  no  matter  how  hor- 
ribly he  may  desire  to  escape.  But  you  need  not  envy  me  \ 


286  MOLLY  BAWN. 

it  is  sweeter  to  be  as  you  are, — to  know  him  yonrs  without 
the  shadow  of  a  tie.  He  is  not  lost  to  you." 

"  Effectually.  What  !  do  you  think  I  would  submit  to 
be  again  engaged  to  a  man  who  could  fling  me  off  for  a 
chimera,  a  mere  trick  of  the  imagination  ?  If  he  were  to 
beg  my  pardon  on  his  knees, — if  he  were  to  acknowledge 
every  word  he  said  to  me  a  lie, — I  would  not  look  at  him 
again." 

"I  always  said  your  pride  would  be  your  bane,"  says 
Cecil,  reprovingly.  "  Now,  just  think  how  far  happier 
you  would  be  if  you  were  friends  with  him  again,  and 
think  of  nothing  else.  What  is  pride  in  comparison  with 
comfort  ?  " 

"  Have  you  forgiven  Sir  Penthony  ?  " 

"Freely.     But  he  won't  forgive  me." 

"  Have  you  forgiven  him  the  first  great  crime  of  all, — 
his  indifference  toward  his  bride  ?  " 

"  N — o,"  confesses  her  ladyship,  smiling  ;  "not  yet." 

"  Ah  !  then  don't  blame  me.  I  could  have  killed  my- 
self when  I  cried,"  says  Molly,  referring  again  to  the  past, 
with  a  little  angry  shiver;  "but  I  felt  so  sorry  for  my 
poor,  pretty,  innocent  ring.  And  he  looked  so  handsome, 
BO  determined,  when  he  flung  it  in  the  fire,  with  his  eyes 
quite  dark  and  his  figure  drawn  up  ;  and — and — I  could 
not  help  wondering,"  says  Molly,  with  a  little  tremble  in 
her  tone,  "  who  next  would  love  him — and  who — he — 
would  love." 

"  I  never  thought  you  were  so  fond  of  him,  dearest, " 
says  Cecil,  laying  her  hand  softly  on  her  friend's. 

"  Nor  I, — until  I  lost  him,"  murmurs  poor  Molly,  with 
a  vain  attempt  at  composure.  Two  tears  fall  heavily  into 
her  lap  ;  a  sob  escapes  her. 

"  Now  you  are  going  to  cry  again,"  interposes  Cecil, 
fidth  hasty  but  kindly  warning.  "Don't.  He  is  not  going 
to  fall  in  love  with  any  one  so  long  as  you  are  single,  take 
my  word  for  it.  Nonsense,  my  dear  !  cheer  yourself  with 
the  certainty  that  he  is  at  tliis  very  moment  eating  his 
heart  out,  because  he  knows  better  than  I  do  that,  though 
there  may  be  many  women,  there  is  only  one  Molly  Bawn  in 
the  world." 

This  reflection,  although  consolatory,  has  not  the  desired 
effect.  Instead  of  drying  her  eves  and  declaring  herself 
glad  that  Luttrell  is  unhappy,  Molly  grows  more  and  mow 
afflicted  every  moment. 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  ^ffj 

"My  dear  girl,"  exclaims  Lady  Stafford,  as  a  last  re- 
source, "  do  pray  think  of  your  complexion.  I  have  fin- 
ished crying  ;  I  shall  give  way  to  crying  no  more,  because 
I  wish  to  look  my  best  to-morrow,  to  let  him  see  what  a 
charming  person  he  has  chosen  to  quarrel  with.  And  my 
tears  are  not  so  destructive  as  yours,  because  mine  arise 
from  vexation,  yours  from  feeling." 

"  I  hardly  know,"  says  Molly,  with  an  attempt  at  non- 
chalance she  is  far  from  feeling,  "I  really  think  I  cried 
more  for  my  diamond  than  for — my  lover.  However,  I 
shall  take  your  advice ;  I  shall  think  no  more  about  it 
To-morrow  " — rising  and  running  to  the  glass,  and  pushing 
back  her  disordered  hair  from  her  face,  that  is  lovely  in 
spite  of  marring  tears — "to-morrow  I  shall  be  gayer, 
brighter  than  he  has  ever  yet  seen  me.  What !  shall  I  let 
him  think  I  fret  because  of  him  !  He  saw  me  once  in 
tears  ;  he  shall  not  see  me  so  again." 

"  What  a  pity  it  is  that  grief  should  be  so  unbecoming  !  " 
says  Cecil,  laughing.  f<  I  always  think  what  a  guy  Niobe 
must  have  been  if  she  was  indeed  all  tears." 

"  The  worst  thing  about  crying,  I  think,"  says  Molly, 
"  is  the  fatal  desire  one  feels  to  blow  one's  nose  :  that  is 
the  horrid  part  of  it.  I  knew  I  was  looking  odious  all  the 
time  I  was  weeping  over  my  ring,  and  that  added  to  my 
discomfort.  By  the  bye,  Cecil,  what  were  you  doing  at 
the  table  with  a  pencil  just  before  we  broke  up  to-night? 
Sir  Penthony  was  staring  at  you  fixedly  all  through, — won- 
dering, I  am  sure,  at  your  occupation,  as,  to  tell  the  truth, 
was  I." 

"Nothing  very  remarkable.  I  was  inditing  a  ' sonnet 
to  your  eyebrow/  or  rather  to  your  lids,  they  were  so  deli- 
cately tinted,  and  so  much  in  unison  with  the  extreme 
dejection  of  your  entire  bearing.  I  confess,  unkind  as  it 
may  sound,  they  moved  me  to  laughter.  Ah  !  that  re- 
minds me,"  says  Cecil,  her  expression  changing  to  one  of 
comical  terror,  as  she  starts  to  her  feet,  "  Plantagenet 
came  up  at  the  moment,  and  lest  he  should  see  my  compo- 
sition I  hid  it  within  the  leaves  of  the  blotting-bock. 
There  it  is  still,  no  doubt.  What  shall  I  do  if  any  one 
finds  it  in  the  morning  ?  I  shall  be  read  out  of  meeting, 
as  I  have  an  indistinct  idea  that,  with  a  view  to  making 
you  laugh,  I  rather  caricatured  every  one  in  the  room, 
more  or  less." 

"  Shall  I  run  down  for  it  ?  "  says  Molly.     "  I  won't  be  a 


288  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

moment,  and  you  are  quite  undressed.     In  the  blotting- 
book,  you  said  ?    I  shan't  be  any  time." 

"  Unless  the  ghosts  detain  you." 

"Or,  what  would  be  much  worse,  any  of  our  friends." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

**  A  single  stream  of  all  her  soft  brown  hair 
Poured  on  one  side. 
****** 

Half  light,  half  shade, 
She  stood,  a  sight  to  make  an  old  man  young." 

Gardener's  Daughter. 

THRUSTING  her  little  bare  feet  into  her  slippers,  she 
takes  up  a  candle  and  walks  softly  down  the  stairs,  past  the 
smoking  and  billiard-rooms,  into  the  drawing-room,  where 
the  paper  has  been  left. 

All  the  lamps  have  been  extinguished,  leaving  the  apart- 
ment, which  is  immense,  steeped  in  darkness.  Coming 
into  it  from  the  brilliantly-lighted  hall  outside,  with  only  a 
candle  in  her  hand,  the  gloom  seems  even  greater,  and 
overcomes  her  sight  to  such  a  degree  that  she  has  traversed 
at  least  one-half  its  length  before  she  discovers  she  is  not 
its  only  occupant. 

Seated  before  a  writing-table,  with  his  hand,  indeed,  upon 
the  very  blotting-book  she  seeks,  and  with  only  another 
candle  similar  to  hers  to  lend  him  light,  sits  Luttrell. 

As  her  eyes  meet  his  she  starts,  colors  violently,  and  is 
for  the  moment  utterly  abashed. 

Involuntarily  she  glances  down  at  the  soft  blue  dressing- 
gown  she  wears,  over  which  her  hair— brushed  and  arranged 
for  the  night — falls  in  soft,  rippling,  gold-brown  masses, 
and  from  thence  to  the  little  naked  feet  that  peep  out 
shamelessly  from  their  blue  slippers. 

The  crimson  blood  rises  to  her  face.  Covered  with  a 
painful  though  pretty  confusion,  she  stands  quite  still,  and 
lets  her  tell-tale  eyes  seek  the  ground. 

Luttrell  has  risen,  and,  without  any  particular  design, 
has  advanced  toward  her.  Perhaps  the  force  of  habit  com- 
pels him  to  do  so  ;  perhaps  intense  and  not  altogether  wel- 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  289 

come  surprise.  For  the  future  to  see  her  is  but  to  add  one 
more  pang  to  his  intolerable  regret. 

"I  was  writing  to  you/'  he  says,  indicating  with  a 
slight  movement  of  the  hand  the  chair  on  which  he  has 
been  sitting,  and  thus  breaking  the  awful  silence  which 
threatens  to  last  until  next  day,  so  mute  has  Molly  grown. 
With  a  delicate  sense  of  chivalry  he  endeavors  to  appear 
oblivious  of  her  rather  scanty  and  disconcerting — however 
becoming — costume.  "  But  as  it  is,  perhaps  I  may  as  well 
say  to  you  what  is  on  my  mind, — if  you  will  permit  me." 

"  I  cannot  forbid  your  speech."     Coldly. 

"  I  will  not  keep  you  long.  But  " — with  a  slight,  almost 
imperceptible,  glance  at  her  dressing-gown — "  perhaps  you 
are  in  a  hurry  ?  " 

"  I  am— father."  At  this  juncture,  had  they  been  friends, 
Molly  would  undoubtedly  have  laughed.  As  it  is,  she  is 
prof oundly  serious.  "Still,  if  it  is  anything  important.  I 
will  hear  you." 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  "  asks  he,  hesitating,  evi- 
dently fearing  to  approach  the  desired  subject. 

"  Nothing,  thank  you.  I  came  only  for  a  paper, — left 
in  the  blotting-book.  If  you  wish  to  speak,  do  so  quickly, 
as  I  must  go."  Then,  as  he  still  hesitates,  "Why  do  you 
pause  ?  " 

"  Because  I  fear  incurring  your  displeasure  once  again  ; 
and  surely  the  passages  between  us  have  been  bad  enough 
already." 

"  Do  not  fear."  Coldly.  "  It  is  no  longer  in  your 
power  to  wound  me." 

"  True.  I  should  not  have  allowed  that  fact  to  escape 
me.  Yet  hear  me.  It  is  my  love  urges  me  on." 

"  Your — love  !  "    With  slow  and  scornful  disbelief. 

"  Yes, — mine.  In  spite  of  all  that  has  come  and  gone, 
you  know  me  well  enough  to  understand  how  dear  you  still 
are  to  me.  No,  you  need  not  say  a  word.  I  can  see  by 
your  face  that  you  will  never  pardon.  There  is  no  greater 
curse  than  to  love  a  woman  who  gives  one  but  bare  toler- 
ance in  return." 

"  Why  did  you  not  think  of  all  this  while  there  was  yet 
time?" 

"  One  drifts — until  it  is  too  late  to  seek  for  remedies. 
My  heaviest  misfortune  lies  in  the  fact  that  I  cannot  root 
you  from  my  heart." 

"A  terrible  misfortune,  no  doubt," — with  a  little  an- 


290  MOLLY  BAWN. 

gry  flasli  from  her  azure  eyes, — "but  one  that  time  will 
cure. " 

"  Will  it  ?"  Wistfully.  "Shall  I  indeed  learn  to  for- 
get you,  Molly, — to  look  back  upon  my  brief  but  happy 
past  as  an  idie  dream  ?  I  hardly  hope  so  much." 

"And  would  you  waste  all  your  best  days,"  asks  she, 
in  tones  that  tremble  ever  so  little,  "  in  thinking  of  me  ? 
Eemember  all  you  said, — all  you  meant, — how  '  thankful 
you  were  to  find  me  out  in  time.' ' 

"  And  will  you  condemn  forever  because  of  a  few  words 
spoken  in  a  moment  of  despair  and  terrible  disappoint- 
ment ? "  pleads  he.  "  I  acknowledge  my  fault.  I  was 
wrong ;  I  was  too  hasty.  I  behaved  like  a  brute,  if  you 
will ;  but  then  I  believed  I  had  grounds  for  fear.  When 
once  I  saw  your  face,  heard  your  voice,  looked  into  your 
eyes,  I  knew  how  false  my  accusations  were  ;  but  it  was  then 
too  late." 

"  Too  late,  indeed." 

"  How  calmly  you  can  say  it  !  "  with  exquisite  reproach. 
"  Have  five  minutes  blotted  out  five  months  ?  Did  you 
jmow  all  the  anguish  I  endured  on  seeing  you  with — Shad- 
well — I  think  you  might  forgive." 

"  I  might.  But  I  could  not  forget.  Would  I  again  con- 
Bent  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  one  who  without  a  question  pro- 
nounced me  guilty  ?  A  thousand  times  no  ! " 

"  Say  at  once  you  are  glad  to  be  rid  of  me,"  breaks  he 
in  bitterly,  stung  by  her  persistent  coldness. 

"  You  are  forgetting  your  original  purpose,"  she  says, 
after  a  slight  pause,  declining  to  notice  his  last  remark. 
"  Was  there  not  something  you  wished  to  say  to  me  ?  " 

"  Yes."  Bousing  himself  with  an  impatient  sigh. 
"  Molly,"  blanching  a  little,  and  trying  to  read  her  face, 
with  all  his  heart  in  his  eyes, — "are  you  going  to  marry 
Shadwell  ?" 

Molly  colors  richly  (a  rare  thing  with  her),  grows  pale 
again,  clasps  and  unclasps  her  slender  fingers  nervously, 
before  she  makes  reply.  A  prompting  toward  mischief 
grows  within  her,  together  with  a  sense  of  anger  that  he 
should  dare  put  such  a  question  to  her  under  existing  cir- 
cumstances. 

"I  cannot  see  by  what  right  you  put  to  me  such  a  ques- 
tion— now, "  she  says,  at  length,  haughtily.  "  My  affairs 
can  r  .>  longer  concern  you."  With  an  offended  gleam  at 
him  .n-cm  under  her  long  lashes. 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  y§\ 

"But  they  do,"  cries  he,  hotly,  maddened  by  her  blush, 
which  he  has  attributed  jealously  to  a  wrong  cause.  "  How 
can  I  see  you  throwing  yourself  away  upon  a  rout, — a  black- 
leg— without  uttering  a  word  of  warning  ?  " 

"  '  A  rou6—&  blackleg'?  Those  are  strong  terms.  What 
has  Captain  Shadwell  done  to  deserve  them  ?  A  blackleg! 
How?" 

"  Perhaps  I  go  too  far  when  I  say  that,"  says  Luttrell, 
wishing  with  all  his  heart  he  knew  something  vile  of  Shad- 
well  ;  "  but  he  has  gone  as  near  it  as  any  man  well  can.  You 
and  he  cannot  have  a  thought  in  common.  Will  you  sacri- 
fice your  entire  life  without  considering  well  the  conse- 
quences ?  " 

"He  is  a  gentleman,  at  all  events,"  says  Miss  Masse- 
reene,  slowly,  cuttingly.  "He  never  backbites  his  friends. 
He  is  courteous  in  his  manner  ;  and — he  knows  how  to 
keep — his  temper.  I  do  not  believe  any  of  your  insinua- 
tions." 

"  You  defend  him  ?"  cries  Luttrell,  vehemently.  "Does 
that  mean  that  you  already  love  him  ?  It  is  impossible  ! 
In  a  few  short  weeks  to  forget  all  the  vows  we  interchanged, 
all  the  good  days  we  spent  at  Brooklyn,  before  we  ever 
came  to  this  accursed  place  !  There  at  least  you  liked  me 
well  enough, — you  were  willing  to  trust  to  me  your  life's 

happiness ;  here  ! And  now  you  almost  tell  me  you 

love  this  man,  who  is  utterly  unworthy  of  you.     Speak. 
Say  it  is  not  so." 

"  I  shall  tell  you  nothing.  You  have  no  right  to  ask  me. 
What  is  there  to  prevent  my  marrying  whom  I  choose  ? 
Have  you  so  soon  forgotten  that  last  night  you — jilted  me  ?" 
She  speaks  bitterly,  and  turns  from  him  with  an  unlovely 
laugh. 

"  Molly,"  cries  the  young  man,  in  low  tones,  full  of  pas- 
sion, catching  her  hand,  all  the  violent  emotion  he  has  been 
so  painfully  striving  to  suppress  since  her  entrance  breaking 
loose  now,  "  listen  to  me  for  one  moment.  Do  not  kill  me. 
My  whole  heart  is  bound  up  in  you.  You  are  too  young 
to  be  so  cruel.  Darling,  I  was  mad  when  I  deemed  I  could 
live  without  you.  I  have  been  mad  ever  since  that  fatal 
hour  last  night.  Will  you  forgive  me  ?  Will  you  ?  " 

"Let  my  hand  go,  Mr.  Luttrell,"  says  the  girl,  with  a 
dry  sob.  Is  it  anger,  or  grief,  or  pride  ?  "You  had  me 
once,  and  yon  would  not  keep  me.  You  shall  never  again 
iwve  the  chance  of  throwing  me  over  :  be  assured  oi  that." 


293  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

She  draws  her  fingers  from  his  burning  clasp,  and  once 
more  turns  away,  with  her  eyes  bent  carefully  upon  the 
carpet,  lest  he  shall  notice  the  tears  that  threaten  to  over- 
flow them.  She  walks  resolutely  but  slowly  past  where  he 
is  standing,  with  folded  arms,  leaning  against  the  wall, 
toward  the  door. 

Just  as  her  fingers  close  on  the  handle  she  becomes 
aware  of  footsteps  on  the  outside  coming  leisurely  toward 
her. 

Instinctively  she  shrinks  backward,  casts  a  hasty,  hor- 
rified glance  at  her  dressing-gown,  her  bare  feet,  her  loos- 
ened hair ;  then,  with  a  movement  full  of  confidence, 
mingled  with  fear,  she  hastens  back  to  Luttrell  (who,  too, 
has  heard  the  disconcerting  sound)  and  glances  up  at  him 
appealingly. 

"  There  is  'somebody  coming/'  she  breathes,  in  a  terri- 
fied whisper. 

The  footsteps  come  nearer, — nearer  still ;  they  reach 
the  very  threshold,  and  then  pause.  Will  their  owner 
come  in  ? 

In  the  fear  and  agony  and  doubt  of  the  moment,  Molly 
lays  her  two  white  hands  upon  her  bosom  and  stands  listen- 
ing intently,  with  wide-open  gleaming  eyes,  too  frightened 
to  move  or  make  any  attempt  at  concealment ;  while  Lut- 
trell, although  alarmed  for  her,  cannot  withdraw  his  gaze 
from  her  lovely  face. 

Somebody's  hand  steals  along  the  door  as  though  search- 
ing for  the  handle.  With  renewed  hope  Luttrell  instantly 
blows  out  both  the  candles  near  him,  reducing  the  room 
to  utter  darkness,  and  draws  Molly  behind  the  window- 
curtains. 

There  is  a  breathless  pause.  The  door  opens  slowly, — 
slowly.  With  a  gasp  that  can  almost  be  heard,  Molly  puts 
out  one  hand  in  the  darkness  and  lays  it  heavily  upon  Lut- 
trelPs  arm.  His  fingers  close  over  it. 

"  Hush  !  not  a  word,"  whispers  he. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  frightened  ! "  returns  she.  * 

His  heart  has  begun  to  beat  madly.  To  feel  her  so 
close  to  him.  although  only  through  unwished-for  accident, 
is  dangerously  sweet.  By  a  supreme  effort  he  keeps  him- 
self from  taking  her  in  his  arms  and  giving  her  one  last 
embrace  ;  but  honor,  the  hour,  the  situation,  all  alike  for- 
bid. So  he  only  tightens  his  clasp  upon  her  hand  and 
smothers  a  sigh  between  his  lips. 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  393 

Whoever  the  intruder  may  be,  he,  she,  or  it,  is  without 
light ;  no  truth-compelling  ray  illumines  the  gloom  ;  and 
presently,  after  a  slight  hesitation,  the  door  is  closed  again, 
and  the  footsteps  go  lightly,  cautiously  away  through  the 
hall,  leaving  them  once  more  alone  in  the  long,  dark, 
ghostly  drawing-room. 

Molly  draws  her  hand  hurriedly  away,  and  moving 
quietly  from  LuttrelFs  side,  breathes  a  sigh,  half  relief, 
'half  embarrassment ;  while  he,  groping  his  way  to  the 
writing-table,  finds  a  match,  and,  striking  it,  throws  light 
upon  the  scene  again. 

At  the  same  moment  Molly  emerges  from  the  curtains, 
with  a  heightened  color,  and  eyes,  sweet  but  shamed,  that 
positively  refuse  to  meet  his. 

"I  suppose  I  can  trust  you — to — say  nothing  of  all 
this  ?  "  she  murmurs,  unsteadily. 

"  I  suppose  you  can."    Haughtily. 

His  heart  is  still  throbbing  passionately  ;  almost,  he 
fears,  each  separate  beat  can  be  heard  in  the  oppressive 
stillness. 

"  Good-night,"  says  Molly,  slowly. 

"Good- night." 

Shyly,  and  still  without  meeting  his  gaze,  she  holds  out 
her  hand.  He  takes  it  softly,  reverently,  and,  emboldened 
by  the  gentleness  of  her  expression,  says  impulsively  : 

"  Answer  me  a  last  question,  darling, — answer  me — Are 
you  going  to  marry  Philip  ?  " 

And  she  answers,  also  impulsively  : 

"No." 

His  face  changes  ;  hope  once  more  shines  within  his 
blue  eyes.  Involuntarily  he  draws  up  his  tall,  slight  figure 
to  its  full  height,  with  a  glad  gesture  that  bespeaks  return- 
ing confidence ;  then  he  glances  longingly  first  at  Molly's 
downcast  face,  then  at  the  small  hand  that  lies  trembling 
in  his  own. 

"May  I?"  he  asks,  and,  receiving  no  denial,  stoops  and 
kisses  it  warmly  once,  twice,  thrice,  with  fervent  devotion. 


"  My  dear,  how  long  you  have  been  ! "  says  Cecil,  when 
at  length  Molly  returns  to  her  room.  "  I  thought  yon 
were  never  coming.  Where  have  you  been  ?  " 

"  In  the  drawing-room  ;   and  oh,  Cecil  !  h«  was  there. 


MOLL  Y 

And  he  would  keep  me,  asking  me  question  after  ques- 
tion." 

"  I  dare  say,"  says  Cecil,  looking  her  over.  "  That  blue 
negligee  is  tremendously  becoming.  No  doubt  he  has  still 
a  good  many  more  questions  he  would  like  to  put  to  you. 
And  you  call  yourself  a  nice,  decorous,  well-behaved — 

"  Don't  be  silly.  You  have  yet  to  hear  the  '  decorous  * 
and  thrilling  part  of  my  tale.  Just  as  we  were  in  the  mid- 
dle of  a  most  animated  discussion,  what  do  you  think  hap- 
pened ?  Somebody  actually  came  to  the  door  and  tried  to 
open  it.  In  an  instant  Tedcastle  blew  out  both  our  candles 
and  drew  me  behind  the  curtain." 

"  '  "  Curiouser  and  curiouser,"  said  Alice.'  I  begin  to 
think  I'm  in  Wonderland.  Go  on.  The  plot  thickens  ;  the 
impropriety  deepens.  It  grows  more  interesting  at  every 
word." 

"The  ' somebody/  whoever  it  was,  opened  the  door, 
looked  in, — fortunately  without  a  light,  or  we  might  have 
been  discovered, — and " 

"You  fainted,  of  course  ?"  says  Cecil,  who  is  consumed 
with  laughter. 

"No,  indeed,"  answers  Molly;  "I  neither  fainted  nor 
screamed." 

"  Tut  !  nonsense.  I  think  nothing  of  you.  Such  a 
golden  opportunity  thrown  away  !  In  your  place  I  should 
have  been  senseless  in  half  a  minute  in  Tedcastle's  arms." 

"Forgive  my  stupidity.  I  only  turned  and  caught  hold 
of  Teddy's  arm,  and  held  him  as  though  I  never  meant  to 
let  him  go." 

"  Perhaps  that  was  your  secret  wish,  were  the  truth 
known.  Molly,  you  are  wiser  than  I  am.  What  is  a  paltry 
fainting  fit  to  the  touch  of  a  soft,  warm  hand  ?  Go  on." 

"  Well,  the  invader,  when  he  had  gazed  into  space, 
withdrew  again,  leaving  us  to  our  own  devices.  Cecil,  if  we 
had  been  discovered  !  I  in  my  dressing-gown  !  Not  all  the 
waters  of  the  Atlantic  would  have  saved  me  from  censure. 
I  never  was  so  terrified.  Who  could  it  have  been  ?  " 

•'  'Oh I  'twas  I,  love; 
Wandering  by,  love,'" 

declares  Cecil,  going  off  into  a  perfect  peal  of  laughter. 
•'Never,  never  have  I  been  so  entertained!  And  so  I 
frightened  you  ?  Well,  be  comforted.  I  was  terrified  in 
my  turn  by  your  long  abseace  ;  so  much  so  that,  without  a 


MOLLY  BAWN.  295 

candle,  I  crept  down-stairs,  stole  along  the  hall,  and  looked 
into  the  drawing-room.  Seeing  no  one,  I  retreated,  and 
gained  my  own  room  again  as  fast  as  I  could.  Oh,  how 
sorry  I  am  I  did  not  know  !  Consider  your  feelings  had  I 
stolen  quietly  toward  your  hiding-place  step  by  step  !  A 
splendid  situation  absolutely  thrown  away." 

"  You  and  Mr.  Potts  ought  to  be  brother  and  sister,  you 
both  revel  so  in  the  bare  idea  of  mischief,"  says  Molly, 
laughing  too. 

And  then  Cecil,  declaring  it  is  all  hours,  turns  her  out  of 
her  room,  and  presently  sleep  falls  and  settles  upon  Herst 
and  all  its  inmates. 


CHAPTEK  XXVII. 

"  Death  is  here,  and  death  is  there; 
Death  is  busy  everywhere ; 
All  around,  within,  beneath, 
Above  is  death, — and  we  are  death. 
****** 
Fresh  spring,  and  summer,  and  winter  hoar, 
Move  my  faint  heart  with  grief,  but  with  delight 
No  more,  0  never  more."— -SHELLEY. 

IT  is  just  two  o'clock,  and  Sunday.  They  have  all  been 
to  church.  They  have  struggled  manfully  through  their 
prayers.  They  have  chanted  a  depressing  psalm  or  two  to 
the  most  tuneless  of  ancient  ditties.  They  have  even  sat 
out  an  incomprehensible  sermon  with  polite  gravity  and 
many  a  weary  yawn. 

The  day  is  dull.  So  is  the  rector.  So  is  the  curate, — 
unutterably  so. 

Service  over,  they  file  out  again  into  the  open  air  in 
solemn  silence,  though  at  heart  glad  as  children  who  break 
school,  and  wend  their  way  back  to  Herst  through  the  dis- 
mantled wood. 

The  trees  are  nearly  naked  :  a  short,  sad,  consumptive 
wind  is  soughing  through  them.  The  grass — what  remains 
of  it — is  brown,  of  an  unpleasant  hue.  No  flowers  smile  up 
at  them  as  they  pass  quietly  along.  The  sky  is  leaden. 
There  is  a  general  air  of  despondency  over  everything.  It 
is  a  day  laid  aside  for  dismal  reflection ;  a  day  on  which 


296  MOLL  Y 

hateful  "  might  have  beens"  crop  up,  for  "  melancholy  has 
marked  it  for  its  own." 

Yet  just  as  they  come  to  a  turn  in  the' park,  two  magpies 
(harbingers  of  good  when  coupled  ;  messengers  of  evil  when 
apart)  fly  past  them  directly  across  their  path. 

"  '  Two  for  joy  ! ' "  cries  Molly,  gayly,  glad  of  any  inter- 
ruption to  her  depressing  thoughts.  "I  saw  them  first. 
The  luck  is  mine." 

"  I  think  /saw  them  first/'  says  Sir  Penthony,  with  no 
object  beyond  a  laudable  desire  to  promote  argument. 

' '  Now,  how  could  you  ? "  says  Molly.  "  I  am  quite 
twenty  yards  ahead  of  you,  and  must  have  seen  them  come 
round  this  corner  first.  Now,  what  shall  I  get,  I  wonder  ? 
Something  worth  getting,  I  do  hope." 

" e  Blessed  are  they  that  expect  nothing,  for  they  shall 
not  be  disappointed,'"  says  Mr.  Potts,  moodily,  who  is  as 
gloomy  as  the  day.  "  I  expect  nothing." 

"  You  are  jealous,"  retorts  Molly.     li  Sour  grapes, "- 
making  a  small  moue  at  him.     "  But  you  have  no  claim 
upon  this  luck  ;  it  is  all  my  own.    Let  nobody  for  a  moment 
look  upon  it  as  his  or  hers." 

"  You  are  welcome  to  it.  I  don't  envy  you,"  says  Cecil, 
little  thinking  how  prophetic  are  her  words. 

They  continue  their  walk  and  their  interrupted  thoughts, 
— the  latter  leading  them  in  all  sorts  of  contrary  directions, 
— some  to  love,  some  to  hate,  some  to  cold  game-pie  and 
dry  champagne. 

As  they  enter  the  hall  at  Herst,  one  of  the  footrnen  steps 
forward  and  hands  Molly  an  ugly  yellow  envelope. 

"  Why,  here  is  my  luck,  perhaps  ! "  cries  she,  gayly. 
1 '  How  soon  it  has  come  !  Now,  what  can  be  in  it  ?  Let 
us  all  guess." 

She  is  surprised,  and  her  cheeks  have  flushed  a  little. 
Her  face  is  full  of  laughter.  Her  sweet  eyes  wander  from 
one  to  another,  asking  them  to  join  in  her  amusement.  No 
thought,  no  faintest  suspicion  of  the  awful  truth  occurs  to 
her,  although  only  a  thin  piece  of  paper  conceals  it  from 
her  view. 

"  A  large  fortune,  perhaps,"  says  Sir  Penthony  ;  while 
the  others  close  round  her,  laughing,  too.  Only  Luttrell 
stands  apart,  calmly  indifferent. 

"  Or  a  proposal.  That  would  just  suit  the  rapid  times 
*  \  which  we  live." 

"  I  think  1  would  at  once  accent  a  man  who  proposed  to 


MOLL  Y  SA  WK.  '  $97 

me  by  telegraph/'  says  Molly,  with  pretty  affectation.  "  It 
would  show  such  flattering  haste, — such  a  desire  for  a  kind 
reply.  Kemember," — with  her  finger  under  the  lap  of  the 
envelope, — "  if  the  last  surmise  proves  correct  I  have  almost 
said  yes." 

She  breaks  open  the  paper,  and,  smiling  still,  daintily 
unfolds  the  enclosure. 

What  a  few  words  ! — two  or  three  strokes  of  the  pen. 
Yet  what  a  change  they  make  in  the  beautiful,  debonnaire 
countenance  !  Black  as  ink  they  stand  out  beneath  her 
stricken  eyes.  Oh,  cruel  hand  that  penned  them  so  ab- 
ruptly ! 

"  Come  home  at  once.  Make  no  delay.  Your  brother 
is  dead." 

Gray  as  death  grows  her  face  ;  her  body  turns  to  stone. 
So  altered  is  she  in  this  brief  space,  that  when  she  raises 
her  head  some  shrink  away  from  her,  and  some  cry  out. 

"Oh,  Molly!  what  is  it?"  asks  Lady  Stafford,  panic- 
stricken,  seizing  her  by  the  arm  ;  while  Luttrell,  scarcely 
less  white  than  the  girl  herself,  comes  unconsciously  for- 
ward. 

Molly's  arms  fall  to  her  sides ;  the  telegram  flutters  to 
the  floor. 

"  My  brother  is  dead,"  she  says,  in  a  slow,  unmeaning 
tone. 

"  He  is  dead,"  she  says  again,  in  a  rather  higher,  shriller 
voice,  receiving  no  response  from  the  awed  group  that  sur- 
rounds her.  Their  silence  evidently  puzzles  her.  Her 
large  eyes  wander  helplessly  over  all  their  faces,  until  at 
length  they  fall  on  Luttrell's.  Here  they  rest,  knowing 
she  has  found  one  that  loves  her. 

"  Teddy — Teddy  ! "  she  cries,  in  an  agonized  tone  of 
desolation  ;  then,  throwing  up  her  arms  wildly  toward 
heaven,  as  though  imploring  pity,  she  falls  forward  sense- 
less into  his  outstretched  arms. 


All  through  the  night  Cecil  Stafford  stays  with  her, 
soothing  and  caressing  her  as  best  she  can.  But  all  her 
soothing  and  caressing  falls  on  barren  soil. 

Up  and  down  the  room  throughout  the  weary  hours 
walks  Molly,  praying,  longing  for  the  daylight ;  asking 
impatiently  every  now  and  then  if  it  "  will  never  come." 


398  MOLL  Y  BA  Wtf. 

Surely  on  earth  there  is  no  greater  cross  to  bear  than  th« 
passive  one  of  waiting  when  distress  and  love  call  loudly 
for  assistance. 

Her  eyes  are  dry  and  tearless  ;  her  whole  body  burns  like 
fire  with  a  dull  and  throbbing  heat.  She  is  composed  but 
restless. 

"Will  it  soon  be  day?"  she  asks  Cecil,,  almost  every 
half  hour,  with  a  fierce  impatience, — her  entire  being  full 
of  but  one  idea,  which  is  to  reach  her  home  as  soon  as 
possible. 

And  again  : 

"  If  I  had  not  fainted  I  might  have  been  there  now. 
Why  did  I  miss  that  train  ?  Why  did  you  let  me  faint  ?  " 

In  vain  Cecil  strives  to  comfort ;  no  thought  comes  to 
her  but  a  mad  craving  for  the  busy  day. 

At  last  it  comes,  slowly,  sweetly.  The  gray  dawn  deep- 
ens into  rose,  the  sun  flings  abroad  its  young  and  chilly 
beams  upon  the  earth.  It  is  the  opening  of  a  glorious 
morn.  How  often  have  we  noticed  in  our  hours  of  direst 

frief  how  it  is  then  Nature  chooses  to  deck  herself  in  all 
er  fairest  and  best,  as  though  to  mock  us  with  the  very 
gayety  and  splendor  of  her  charms  ! 

At  half -past  seven  an  early  train  is  starting.  Long  be- 
fore that  time  she  is  dressed,  with  her  hat  and  jacket  on, 
fearful  lest  by  any  delay  she  should  miss  it ;  and  when  at 
length  the  carriage  is  brought  round  to  the  door  she  runs 
swiftly  down  the  stairs  to  meet  it. 

In  the  hall  below,  awaiting  her,  stands  Luttrell,  ready 
to  accompany  her. 

"  Are  you  going,  too  ?  "  Cecil  asks,  in  a  whisper,  only 
half  surprised. 

"  Yes,  of  course.     I  will  take  her  myself  to  Brooklyn." 

"  I  might  have  known  you  would,"  Cecil  says,  kindly, 
and  then  she  kisses  Molly,  who  hardly  returns  the  caress, 
and  puts  her  into  the  carriage,  and,  pressing  Luttrell's 
hand  warmly,  watches  them  until  they  are  driven  out  of 
her  sight. 

During  all  the  long  drive  not  one  word  does  Molly  utter. 
Neither  does  Luttrell,  whose  heart  is  bleeding  for  her. 
She  takes  no  notice  of  him,  expresses  no  surprise  at  hid 
being  with  her. 

At  the  station  he  takes  her  ticket,  through  bribery  ob- 
tains an  empty  carriage,  and,  placing  a  rug  round  her, 
seats  himself  at  the  farthest  end  of  the  compartment  from 


MOLL  V  BA  WN.  299 

fter, — so  little  does  he  seek  to  intrude  upon  her  grief.  And 
yet  she  takes  no  heed  of  him.  He  might,  indeed,  be  absent, 
or  the  veriest  stranger,  so  little  does  his  presence  seem  to 
affect  her.  Leaning  rather  forward,  with  her  hands  clasped 
upon  her  knees,  she  scarcely  stirs  or  raises  her  head  through- 
out the  journey,  except  to  go  from  carriage  to  train,  from 
train  back  again  to  carriage. 

Once,  during  their  last  short  drive  from  the  station  to 
Brooklyn,  moved  by  compassion,  he  ventures  to  address  her. 

"I  wish  you  could  cry,  my  poor  darling,"  he  says,  ten- 
derly, taking  her  hand  and  fondling  it  between  his  own. 

"Tears  could  not  help  me,"  she  answers.  And  then,  as 
though  aroused  by  his  voice,  she  says,  uneasily,  "  Why  are 
you  here?" 

"Because  I  am  his  friend  and — yours/'  he  returns, 
gently,  making  allowance  for  her  small  show  of  irritation. 

"True,"  she  says,  and  no  more.  Five  minutes  after- 
ward they  reach  Brooklyn. 

The  door  stands  wide  open.  All  the  world  could  have 
entered  unrebuked  into  that  silent  hall.  What  need  now 
for  bars  and  bolts  ?  When  the  Great  Thief  has  entered  in 
and  stolen  from  them  their  best,  what  heart  have  they  to 
guard  against  lesser  thefts  ? 

Luttrell  follows  Molly  into  the  house,  his  face  no  whit 
less  white  than  her  own.  A  great  pain  is  tugging  at  him, 
— a  pain  that  is  almost  an  agony.  For  what  greater  suffer- 
ing is  there  than  to  watch  with  unavailing  sympathy  the 
anguish  of  those  we  love? 

He  touches  her  lightly  on  the  arm  to  rouse  her,  for  she 
has  stood  stock-still  in  the  very  middle  of  the  hall, — 
whether  through  awful  fear,  or  grief,  or  sudden  bitter 
memory,  her  heart  knoweth. 

"  Molly,"  says  her  lover,  "let  me  go  with  you." 

"You  still  here  ?"  she  says,  awaking  from  her  thoughts, 
with  a  shiver.  "I  thought  you  gone.  Why  do  you  stay  ? 
I  only  ask  to  be  alone. " 

"I  shall  go  in  a  few  minutes/'  he  pleads,  "when  I  have 
seen  you  safe  with  Mrs.  Massereene.  I  am  afraid  for  you. 
Suppose  you  should — suppose — you  do  not  even  know — 
the  room,"  he  winds  up,  desperately.  "Let  me  guard 
you  against  such  an  awful  surprise  as  that." 

"I  do,"  she  answers,  pointing,  with  a  shudder,  to  one 
room  farther  on  that  branches  off  the  hall.  "  It — is  there. 
Leave  me  j  I  shall  be  better  by  myself." 


300  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

"I  shall  see  you  to-morrow  ?"  he  says,  diffidently. 

"No  ;  I  shall  see  no  one  to-morrow." 

"Nevertheless,  I  shall  call  to  know  how  you  are,"  he 
aays,  persistently,  and  kissing  one  of  her  limp  little  hands, 
departs. 

Outside  on  the  gravel  he  meets  the  old  man  who  for 
years  hab  had  care  of  the  garden  and  general  out-door  work 
at  Brooklyn. 

"It  is  a  terrible  thing,  sir,"  this  ancient  individual 
»ys,  touching  his  hat  to  Luttrell,  who  had  been  rather  a 
favorite  with  nim  during  his  stay  last  summer.  He  speaks 
without  being  addressed,  feeling  as  though  the  sad  catas- 
trophe that  has  occurred  has  leveled  some  of  the  etiquette 
existing  between  master  and  man. 

"  Terrible  indeed."  And  then,  in  a  low  tone,  "  How  did 
it  happen  ?  " 

"  'Twas  just  this,"  says  the  old  man,  who  is  faithful,  and 
has  understood  for  many  years  most  of  John  Massereene's 
affairs,  having  lived  with  him  from  boy  to  man  ;  "  'twas 
money  that  did  it.  He  had  invested  all  he  had,  as  it  might 
be,  and  he  lost  it,  and  the  shock  went  to  his  heart  and  killed 
him.  Poor  soul  !  poor  soul ! " 

"  Disease  of  the  heart.  Who  would  have  suspected  it  ? 
And  he  has  lost  all.  Surely  something  remains  ?  " 

"  Only  a  few  hundreds,  sir,  as  I  hear, — nothing  to  sig- 
nify,— for  the  poor  mistress  and  the  wee  bits.  It  is  a  fear- 
ful thing,  sir,  and  bad  to  think  of.  And  there's  Miss  Molly, 
too.  I  never  could  abide  them  spickilations,  as  they're 
called." 

"  Poor  John  Massereene  ! "  says  Luttrell,  taking  off  his 
hat.  ' '  He  meant  no  harm  to  any  one, — least  of  all  to  those 
who  were  nearest  to  his  kindly  heart." 

"  Ay,  ay,  man  and  boy  I  knew  him.  He  was  always 
kind  and  true,  was  the  master, — with  no  two  ways  about 
him.  "When  the  letter  came  as  told  him  all  was  gone,  and 
that  only  beggary  was  before  him,  he  said  nothing,  only 
went  away  to  his  study  dazed  like,  an'  read  it,  an'  read  it, 
and  then  fell  down  heart-broken  upon  the  floor.  Dead  he 
was — stone  dead — afore  any  of  us  came  to  him.  The  poor 
missis  it  was  as  found  him  first." 

"  It  is  too  horrible,"  says  Luttrell,  shuddering.  He  nods 
his  head  to  the  old  man  and  walks  away  from  him  down  to 
the  village  inn.  depressed  and  saddened. 

Tlie  gardener's  news  has  been  worse  than  even  he  antici- 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  301 

pated.  To  be  bereft  of  their  dearest  is  bad  enough,  but 
to  be  thrown  penniless  on  the  mercies  of  the  cold  and 
cruel — nay,  rather  thoughtless — world  is  surely  an  aggra- 
vation of  their  misery.  Death  at  all  times  is  a  calamity  ; 
but  when  it  leaves  the  mourners  without  actual  means  of 
support,  how  much  sadder  a  thing  it  is  !  To  know  one's 
comforts  shall  remain  unimpaired  after  the  loss  of  one's 
beloved  is — in  spite  of  all  indignant  denial — a  solace  to 
*he  most  mournful. 


CHAPTEE   XXVIH. 

**  As  the  earth  when  leaves  are  dead. 
As  the  night  when  sleep  is  sped, 
As  the  heart  when  joy  is  flea, 

I  am  left  lone — alone." — SHELLEY. 

MEANTIME,  Molly,  having  listened  vaguely  and  without 
interest,  yet  with  a  curious  iutentness,  to  his  parting  foot- 
falls, as  the  last  one  dies  away  draws  herself  up  and,  with 
a  sigh  or  two,  moves  instinctively  toward  the  door  she  had 
pointed  out  to  Luttrell. 

No  one  has  told  her,  no  hint  has  reached  her  ears.  It 
is  not  his  usual  bedroom,  yet  she  knows  that  within  that 
door  lies  all  that  remains  to  her  of  the  brother  so  fondly 
loved. 

With  slow  and  lagging  steps,  with  bent  head  and  averted 
eyes,  she  creeps  tardily  near,  resting  with  her  hand  upon 
the  lock  to  summon  courage  to  meet  what  must  be  before 
her.  She  feels  faint, — sick  with  a  bodily  sickness, — for 
never  yet  has  she  come  face  to  face  with  Death. 

At  last,  bringing  her  teeth  firmly  together,  and  closing 
her  eyes,  by  an  immense  effort  she  compels  he^elf  to  turn 
the  handle  of  the  door,  and  enters. 

Letitia  is  seated  upon  the  floor  beside  the  bed,  her  head 
lowered,  her  hands  folded  tightly  in  her  lap.  There  is  no 
appearance  of  mourning  so  far  as  garments  are  concerned. 
Of  course,  considering  the  shortness  of  the  time,  it  would 
be  impossible  :  yet  it  seems  odd,  out  of  keeping,  that  she 
should  still  be  wearing  that  soft  blue  serge,  which  is  asso- 
ciated with  so  many  happy  hours. 


302  MOLLY  BAWN. 

She  is  not  weeping  :  there  are  no  traces,  however  faint, 
of  tears.  Her  cheeks  looks  a  little  thinner,  more  haggard, 
and  she  has  lost  the  delicate  girlish  color  that  was  her  chief 
charm  ;  but  her  eyes,  though  black  circles  surround  them, 
— so  black  as  to  suggest  the  appliance  of  art, — have  un  un- 
natural brilliancy  that  utterly  precludes  the  possibility  ol 
crying. 

Some  one  has  pulled  a  piece  of  the  blind  to  one  side,  and 
a  fitful  gleam  of  sunlight,  that  dances  in  a  heartless  man- 
ner, flickers  in  and  out  of  the  room,  nay,  even  strays  in  its 
ghastly  mirth  across  the  bed  where  the  poor  body  lies. 

As  Molly  walks,  or  rather  drags  her  limbs  after  her,  into 
the  chamber  (so  deadly  is  the  terror  that  has  seized  upon 
her),  Letitia  slowly  raised  her  eyes. 

She  evinces  no  surprise  at  her  sister's  home-coming. 

"  There  is  all  that  is  left  you/'  she  says,  in  a  hard,  slow 
voice,  that  makes  Molly  shiver,  turning  her  head  in  the 
direction  of  the  bed,  and  opening  and  shutting  her  hands 
with  a  peculiarly  expressive,  empty  gesture.  Afterward 
she  goes  back  to  her  original  position,  her  face  bent  down- 
ward, her  body  swaying  gently  to  and  fro. 

Keluctantly,  Avith  trembling  steps  and  hidden  eyes, 
Molly  forces  herself  to  approach  the  dreadful  spot.  For 
the  first  time  she  is  about  to  look  on  our  undying  foe, — to 
make  acquaintance  with  the  last  great  change  of  all. 

A  cold  hand  has  closed  upon  her  heart ;  she  is  consumed 
by  an  awesome,  unconquerable  shrinking.  She  feels  a  diffi- 
culty in  breathing  ;  almost  she  thinks  her  senses  are  about 
to  desert  her. 

As  she  reaches  the  side  of  the  bed  opposite  to  where 
Letitia  crouches,  she  compels  herself  to  look,  and  for  the 
moment  sustains  a  passionate  feeling  of  relief,  as  the  white 
sheet  that  covers  all  alone  meets  her  gaze. 

And  yet  not  all.  A  second  later,  and  a  dread  more 
awful  than  the  first  overpowers  her,  for  there,  beneath  the 
fair,  pure  linen  shroud,  the  features  are  clearly  marked, 
the  form  can  be  traced  ;  she  can  assure  herself  of  the  shape 
of  the  head, — the  nose, — the  hands  folded  so  quietly,  so 
obediently,  in  their  last  eternal  sleep  upon  the  cold  breast. 
But  no  faintest  breathing  stirs  them.  He  is  dead  ! 

Her  eyes  grow  to  this  fearful  thing.  To  steady  herself 
she  lays  her  hand  upon  the  back  of  a  chair.  Not  for  all 
the  world  contains  would  she  lean  upon  that  bed,  lest  by 
any  chance  she  should  disturb  the  quiet  sleeper.  The  other 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  30y 

kand  she  puts  out  in  trembling  silence  to  raise  a  corner  of 
the  sheet. 

"  I  cannot)"  she  groans  aloud,  withdrawing  her  fingers 
shudderingly.  But  no  one  heeds.  Three  times  she  essays 
to  throw  back  the  covering,  to  gaze  upon  her  dead,  and 
fails  ;  and  then  at  last  the  deed  is  accomplished,  and  Death 
in  all  its  silent  majesty  lies  smiling  before  her. 

Is  it  John  ?  Yes,  it  is,  of  course.  And  yet — is  it  f  Oh, 
the  changeless  sweetness  of  the  smile, — the  terrible  shading, 
— the  moveless  serenity  ! 

Spell-bound,  heart-broken,  she  gazes  at  him  for  a  minute, 
and  then  hastily,  though  with  the  tenderest  reverence,  she 
hides  away  his  face.  A  heavy,  bursting  sigh  escapes  her  ; 
she  raises  her  head,  and  becomes  conscious  that  Letitia  is 
upon  her  knees  and  is  staring  at  her  fixedly  across  the 
bed. 

There  is  about  her  an  expression  that  is  almost  wild  in 
its  surprise  and  horror. 

"  You  do  not  cry  either/'  says  she,  in  a  clear,  intense  whis- 
per. "  I  thought  I  was  the  only  thing  on  earth  so  un- 
natural. I  have  not  wept.  I  have  not  lost  my  senses.  I 
can  still  think.  I  have  lost  my  all, — my  husband, — John  ! 
— and  yet  I  have  not  shed  one  single  tear.  And  you,  Molly, 
— he  loved  you  so  dearly,  and  I  fancied  you  loved  him  too, — 
and  still  you  are  as  cold,  as  poor  a  creature  as  myself. " 

There  is  no  reply.  Molly  is  regarding  her  speechlessly. 
In  truth,  she  is  dumb  from  sheer  misery  and  the  remem- 
brance of  what  she  has  just  seen.  Are  Letitia's  words  true  ? 
Is  she  heartless  ? 

There  is  a  long  silence, — how  long  neither  of  them  ever 
knows, — and  then  something  happens  that  achieves  what 
all  the  despair  and  sorrow  have  failed  in  doing.  In  the 
house,  through  it,  awakening  all  the  silence,  rings  a  peal  oi 
childish  laugnter.  It  echoes ;  it  trembles  along  the  corridor 
outside ;  it  seems  to  shake  the  very  walls  of  the  death- 
chamber. 

Both  the  women  start  violently.  Molly,  raising  her 
hands  to  her  head,  falls  back  against  the  wall  nearest  to  her, 
unutterable  horror  in  her  face.  Letitia,  with  a  quick,  sharp 
cry,  springs  to  her  feet,  and  then,  running  to  Molly,  flings 
her  arms  around  her. 

"  Molly,  Molly/'  she  exclaims,  wildly,  "  am  I  going  mad  ? 
That  cannot — it  cannot  be  his  child." 

Then  they  cling  to  each  other  in  silent  agony,  until  at 


304  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

length  some  cruel  band  around  their  hearts  gives  way,  and 
the  sorrowful,  healing,  blessed  tears  spring  forth. 


The  last  sad  scene  is  over  ;  the  curtain  has  fallen.  The 
final  separation  has  taken  place.  Their  dead  has  been 
buried  out  of  their  sight. 

The  room  in  which  he  lay  has  been  thrown  open,  the 
blinds  raised,  the  windows  lifted.  Through  them  the  sweet, 
fresh  wind  comes  rushing  in.  The  heartless  sun — now 
grown  cold  and  wintry — has  sent  some  of  its  rays  to  peer 
curiously  where  so  lately  the  body  lay. 

The  children  are  growing  more  demonstrative.  More 
frequently,  and  with  less  fear  of  reproof,  the  sound  of  their 
mirth  is  heard  throughout  the  silent  house.  Only  this  very 
morning  the  boy  Lovat — the  eldest  born,  his  father's  idol 
— went  whistling  through  the  hall.  No  doubt  it  was  in  a 
moment  of  forgetfulness  he  did  it ;  no  doubt  the  poor  lad 
checked  himself  an  instant  later,  with  a  bitter  pang  of  self- 
reproach  ;  but  his  mother  heard  him,  and  the  sound  smote 
her  to  the  heart. 

Mr.  Buscarlet  (who  is  a  kind  little  man,  in  spite  of  hii 
"ways  and  his  manners  "  and  a  few  eccentricities  of  speech), 
at  a  word  from  Molly  comes  to  Brooklyn,  and,  having 
carefully  examined  letters,  papers,  and  affairs  generally, 
turns  their  fears  into  unhappy  certainty.  One  thousand 
pounds  is  all  that  remains  to  them  on  which  to  live  or 
starve. 

The  announcement  of  their  ruin  is  hardly  news  to 
Letitia.  She  has  been  prepared  for  it.  The  letter  found 
crushed  in  her  dead  husband's  hand,  although  suppressing 
half  the  truth,  did  not  deceive  her.  Even  at  that  awful 
moment  she  quite  realized  her  position.  Not  so  Molly. 
With  all  the  unreasoning  trust  of  youth  she  hoped  against 
hope  until  it  was  no  longer  possible  to  do  so,  trying  to 
believe  that  something  forgotten  would  come  to  light,  some 
unremembered  sum,  to  relieve  them  from  absolute  want. 
But  Mr.  Buscarlet's  search  has  proved  ineffective. 

Now,  however,  when  hope  is  actually  at  an  end,  all  her 
natural  self-reliance  and  bravery  return  to  her ;  and  in  the 
very  mouth  of  despair  she  makes  a  way  for  herself  and  for 
those  whom  she  loves  to  escape. 

After  two  nights'  wakeful  hesitation,  shrinking,  doubi* 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN-.  306 

and  fear,  she  forms  a  resolution,  from  which  she  never 
afterward  turns  aside  until  compelled  to  do  so  by  unre- 
strainable  circumstances. 

"  It  is  a  very  distressing  case/'  says  Mr.  Buscarlet,  blow- 
ing his  nose  oppressively, — the  more  so  that  he  feels  for 
her  very  sincerely;  "distressing,  indeed.  I  don't  know 
one  half  so  afflicting.  I  really  do — not — see  what  is  to  be 
done." 

"Do  not  think  me  presumptuous  if  I  say  I  do,"  says 
Molly.  "  I  have  a  plan  already  formed,  and,  if  it  succeeds, 
I  shall  at  least  be  able  to  earn  bread  for  us  all." 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  how?  You  with — ahem! — you 
must  excuse  me  if  I  say — your  youth  and  beauty,  how  do 
you  propose  to  earn  your  bread  ?  " 

"  It  is  my  secret  as  yet/' — with  a  faint  wan  smile.  "  Let 
me  keep  it  a  little  longer.  Not  even  Mrs.  Massereene  knows 
of  it.  Indeed,  it  is  too  soon  to  proclaim  my  design.  People 
might  scoff  it ;  though  for  all  that  I  shall  work  it  out. 
And  something  tells  me  I  shall  succeed." 

"  Yes,  yes,  we  all  think  we  shall  succeed  when  young," 
says  the  old  lawyer,  sadly,  moved  to  keenest  compassion  at 
sight  of  the  beautiful,  earnest  face  before  him.  "  It  is  later 
on,  when  we  are  faint  and  weary  with  the  buffetings  of 
fortune,  the  sad  awakening  comes." 

"  I  shall  not  be  disheartened  by  rebuffs ;  I  shall  not  fail," 
says  Molly,  intently.  "  However  cold  and  ungenerous  the 
world  may  prove,  I  shall  conquer  it  at  last.  Victory  shall 
stay  with  me." 

"  Well,  well,  I  would  not  discourage  any  one.  There 
are  none  so  worthy  of  praise  as  those  who  seek  to  work  out 
their  own  independence,  whether  they  live  or  die  in  the 
struggle.  But  work — of  the  sort  you  mean — is  hard  for  one 
so  young.  You  have  a  plan.  Well,  so  have  I.  But  have 
you  never  thought  of  your  grandfather?  He  is  very  kindly 
disposed  toward  you  ;  and  if  he " 

"I  have  no  time  for  'huts 'and  <ifs/v  she  interrupts 
him,  gently.  "My  grandfather  may  be  kindly  disposed 
toward  me,  but  not  toward  mine, — and  that  counts  for 
much  more.  No,  I  must  fall  back  upon  myself  alone.  I 
have  quite  made  up  my  mind,"  says  Molly,  throwing  up 
her  small  proud  head,  with  a  brave  smile,  "  and  the  knowl- 
edge makes  me  more  courageous.  I  feel  so  strong  to  do, 
so  determined  to  vanquish  ^11  obstacles,  that  I  know  I  shall 
neither  break  down  nor  fail." 


306  MOLL  Y  BA  WN, 

"I' trust  not,  my  dear  ;  I  trust  not.     You  have  my  best 
wishes,  at  least/' 

"  Thank  you,"  says  Molly,  pressing  his  kind  old  hand. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

"  1  fain  would  follow  love,  if  that  could  be." — TENNYBOH. 

LETITIA  in  her  widowed  garments  looks  particularly 
handsome.  All  the  "trappings  and  the  signs"  of  woe  suit 
well  her  tall,  full  figure,  her  fair  and  placid  face. 

Molly  looks  taller,  slenderer  than  usual  in  her  mourning 
robes.  She  is  one  of  those  who  grow  slight  quickly  under 
affliction.  Her  rounded  cheeks  have  fallen  in  and  show  sad 
hollows  ;  her  eyes  are  larger,  darker,  and  show  beneath  them 
great  purple  lines  bom  of  many  tears. 

She  has  not  seen  Luttrell  since  her  return  home, — al- 
though Letitia  has, — and  rarely  asks  for  him.  Her  ab- 
sorbing grief  appears  to  have  swallowed  up  all  other  emo- 
tions. She  has  not  once  left  the  house.  She  works  little, 
she  does  not  read  at  all ;  she  is  fast  falling  into  a  settled 
melancholy. 

"Molly,"  says  Letitia,  "Tedcastle  is  in  the  drawing- 
room.  He  particularly  asks  to  see  you.  Do  not  refuse 
him  again.  Even  though  your  engagement,  as  you  say,  is 
at  an  end,  still  remember,  dearest,  how  kind,  how  more 
than  thoughtful,  he  has  been  in  many  ways  since — of 
late " 

Her  voice  breaks. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  will  see  him,"  Molly  says,  wearily,  and, 
rising,  wends  her  way  slowly,  reluctantly,  to  the  room  which 
contains  her  lover. 

At  sight  of  him  some  chords  that  have  lain  hushed  and 
forgotten  in  her  heart  for  many  days  come  to  life  again. 
Her  pulses  throb,  albeit  languidly,  her  color  deepens  ;  a 
something  that  is  almost  gladness  awakes  within  her.  Alas  ! 
how  human  are  we  all,  how  short-lived  our  keenest  regrets  ! 
With  the  living  love  so  near  her  she  for  the  first  time 
(though  only  for  a  moment)  forgets  the  dead  one. 

In  her  trailing,  sombre  dress,  with  her  sorrowful  white 
cheeks,  and  quivering  lips,  she  goes  up  to  him  and  places 


MOLL  Y  ft  A  Wtf.  307 

her  hand  in  his  ;  while  he,  touched  with  a  mighty  compas- 
sion, stares  at  her,  marking  with  a  lover's  careful  eye  all 
the  many  alterations  in  her  face.  So  much  havoc  in  so 
short  a  time  ! 

"  How  changed  you  are  !  How  you  must  have  suf- 
fered !  "  he  says,  tenderly. 

'  '  I  have,"  she  answers  ;  and  then,  grown  nervous,  be- 
cause of  her  trouble  and  the  fluttering  of  her  heart,  and 
that  tears  of  late  are  so  ready  to  her,  she  covers  her  face 
with  her  hands,  and,  with  the  action  of  a  tired  and  sad- 
dened child,  turning,  hides  it  still  more  effectually  upon  his 
breast. 

"It  is  all  very  miserable,"  he  says,  after  a  pause,  occu- 
pied in  trying  to  soothe. 

"Ah  !  is  it  not?  What  trouble  can  be  compared  with 
it?  To  find  him  dead,  without  a  word,  a  parting  sign  I" 
She  sighs  heavily.  "  The  bitterest  sting  of  all  lies  in  the 
fact  that  but  for  my  own  selfishness  I  might  have  seen  him 
again.  Had  I  returned  home  as  I  promised  at  the  end  of 
the  month  I  should  have  met  my  brother  living  ;  but  in- 
stead I  lingered  on,  enjoying  myself,"  —  with  a  shudder,  — 
"  while  he  was  slowly  breaking  his  heart  over  his  growing 
difficulties.  It  must  all  have  happened  during  this  last 
month.  He  had  no  care  on  his  mind  when  I  left  him  ;  you 
know  that.  You  remember  how  light-hearted  he  was,  now 
kindly,  how  good  to  all." 

"  He  was  indeed,  poor  —  poor  fellow  !  " 

"  And  some  have  dared  to  blame  him,"  she  says,  in  a 
pained  whisper.  "You  do  not?" 


. 

"  I  have  been  calculating,"  she  goes  on,  in  a  distressed 
tone,  "  and  the  very  night  I  was  dancing  so  frivolously  at 
that  horrible  ball  he  must  have  been  lying  awake  here  wait-  ' 
ing  with  a  sick  heart  for  the  news  that  was  to  —  kill  him. 
I  shall  never  go  to  a  ball  again  ;  I  shall  never  dance  again," 
says  Molly,  with  a  passionate  sob,  scorning,  as  youth  will, 
the  power  of  time  to  cure. 

"Darling,  why  should  you  blame  yourself?  Such 
thoughts  are  morbid,"  says  Luttrell,  fondly  caressing  the 
bright  hair  that  still  lies  loosely  against  his  arm.  "  Which 
of  us  can  see  into  the  future  ?  And,  if  we  could,  do  you 
think  it  would  add  to  our  happiness  ?  Shake  off  such  de- 
pressing ideas.  They  will  injure  not  only  your  mind,  but 
your  body." 


308  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  should  feel  it  all  quite  so  much/'  says 
Molly,  in  a  low,  miserable,  expressionless  voice,  "if  I 
could  only  see  him  now  and  then.  No,  not  in  the  flesh — I 
do  not  mean  that, — but  if  I  could  only  bring  his  face  before 
my  mind  I  might  be  content.  For  hours  together  I  sit, 
with  my  hands  clasped  before  my  eyes,  trying  to  conjure 
him  up,  and  I  cannot.  Almost  every  casual  acquaintance 
1  possess,  all  the  people  whose  living  or  dying  matters  to 
me  not  at  all,  rise  at  my  command  ;  but  he  never.  Is  it  not 
curious  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  it  is  because  your  mind  dwells  too  much  upon 
him.  But  tell  me  of  your  affairs/'  says  Lnttrell,  abruptly 
but  kindly,  leading  her  to  a  sofa  and  seating  himself  beside 
her,  with  a  view  of  drawing  her  from  her  unhappy  thoughts. 
•'  Are  they  as  bad  as  Mrs.  Massereene  says  ? 

"Quite  as  bad." 

"Then  what  do  they  mean  to  do?"  In  a  tone  of  the 
deepest  commiseration. 

"'They'?  We,  you  mean.  "What  others,  I  suppose, 
have  learned  to  do  before  us — work  for  our  daily  bread." 

An  incredulous  look  comes  into  his  eyes,  but  iie  wisely 
subdues  it. 

"  And  what  do  you  propose  doing  ? "  he  asks,  calmly, 
meaning  in  his  own  mind  to  humor  her. 

"  You  are  like  Mr.  Buscarlet, — he  would  know  every- 
thing," says  Molly,  with  a  smile;  "but  this  is  a  ques- 
tion you  must  not  ask  me, — just  yet.  I  have  a  hope, — 
perhaps  I  had  better  say  an  idea;  and  until  it  is  con- 
firmed or  rejected  I  shall  tell  no  one  of  it.  No,  not 
even  you." 

"  Well,  never  mind.  Tell  me  instead  when  you  intend 
leaving  Brooklyn." 

"In  a  fortnight  we  must  leave  it.  Is  it  not  a  little 
while  ? — only  two  short  weeks  in  which  to  say  good-bye  for- 
ever to  my  home, — (how  much  that  word  comprises  !) — to 
the  place  where  all  my  life  has  been  spent, — where  every 
stone,  and  tree,  and  path  is  endeared  to  me  by  a  thousand 
memories." 

"And  after?" 

"We  go  to  London.  There  I  hope  to  work  out  my 
idea." 

"  You  have  forgotten  to  tell  me,"  says  Luttrell,  slowly, 
*'  my  part  in  all  these  arrangements." 

"Yours  ?    Ah,  Teddy,  you  put  an  end  to  our  engage- 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  309 

ment  in  good  time.  Now  it  must  have  been  broken,  whether 
we  liked  it  or  not." 

11  Meaning  that  I  must  not  throw  in  my  lot  with  yours? 
Do  you  know  what  folly  you  are  talking  ?  "  says  Luttrell, 
almost  roughly.  "  Ours,  I  am  assured,  is  an  engagement 
that  cannot  be  broken.  Not  all  the  cruel  words  that  could 
be  spoken — that  have  been  spoken  " — in  a  low  tone  of  re- 
proach— "  have  power  to  separate  us.  You  are  minef 
Molly,  as  I  am  yours,  forever.  I  will  never  give  you  up. 
And  now — now — in  the  hour  of  your  trouble "  Break- 
ing off,  he  gets  up  from  his  seat  and  commences  to  pace  the 
room  excitedly. 

She  has  risen  too,  and  is  standing  with  her  eyes  fixed 
anxiously  upon  him.  At  length,  "  Let  us  put  an  end  now 
to  all  misconceptions  and  doubts,"  he  says,  stopping  before 
her.  "Your  manner  that  last  evening  at  Herst,  your 
greeting  of  to-day,  have  led  me  to  hope  again.  I  would 
know  without  further  delay  whether  I  am  wrong  in  think- 
ing you  care  more  for  me  than  for  any  other  man.  Am  I  ? 
Speak,  Molly,  tell  me  now — here — if  you  love  me." 

"  I  do — I  do  \"  cries  she,  bursting  into  tears  again,  and 
flinging  herself  in  an  abandonment  of  grief  into  his  longing 
arms.  "  And  that  is  what  makes  my  task  so  hard.  That 
is  why  I  have  not  allowed  myself  to  see  you  all  these  past 
days.  It  was  not  coldness,  Teddy,  it  was  love.  I  dared 
not  see  you,  because  all  must  be  at  an  end  between  us." 

"  Do  you  think,  with  you  in  my  arms  like  this,  with  the 
assurance  of  your  love  fresh  upon  your  lips,  and  now" — 
stooping — "  upon  mine,  I  can  do  anything  but  laugh  at  such 
treason  as  that  ?  " 

"  Nay,  but  you  must  listen,  Teddy,  and  believe  that  I 
am  earnest  in  al]  that  I  say.  For  the  future  I  shall 
neither  see  you  nor  hear  from  you  :  I  must  even  try  to  for- 
get you,  if  I  would  succeed  in  what  lies  before  me.  Prom 
henceforth  I  shall  do  my  best  to  regard  you  as  a  stranger, 
to  keep  you  at  arm's  length." 

"  Never/'  says  Luttrell,  emphatically,  tightening  his  arms 
around  her,  as  though  to  enforce  the  meaning  of  the  word 
and  show  the  absurdity  of  her  last  remark.  "  You  talk  as 
though  you  meant  to  convince  me,  but  unhappily  you  don't 
The  more  you  say  the  more  determined  I  am  to  marry  yon. 
at  once,  and  put  a  stop  to  all  such  nonsense  as  your  trying 
to  work." 

"  And  are  you  going  to  marry  Letitia  also,  and  Lovat. 


310  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

and  the  two  little  girls,  and  the  baby  ?  "  asks  she,  quietly. 
"  Who  is  talking  nonsense  now  ?  You  seem  to  forget  that 
they  and  I  are  one." 

"  Something  must  be  done/*  says  Luttrell,  wretchedly. 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you  ;  but  who  is  going  to  do  it  ? 

"I  will" — decidedly;  "I  shall  cut  the  army.  My 
father  has  been  a  member  and  a  staunch  Conservative  fcr 
years,  and  surely  he  must  have  some  interest.  I  have 
heard  of  posts  under  government  where  one  has  little  or 
nothing  to  do,  and  gets  a  capital  salary  for  doing  it ;  why 
should  not  I  drop  into  one  of  them  ?  Then  we  might  all 
live  together,  and  perhaps  you  might  be  happy." 

"But  in  the  meantime" — sadly — "we  poor  folks  must 
live." 

"  That  is  the  worst  of  it,"  says  Luttrell,  with  question* 
able  taste,  biting  his  moustache.  "  "Well " — angrily — "  I 
see  you  are  as  bent  on  having  your  own  way  as  ever.  Tell 
me  about  this  mighty  plan  of  yours." 

"  I  cannot,  indeed,  and  you  must  not  ask  me.  If  I  did 
tell  you,  probably  you  would  scoff  at  it,  or  perhaps  be 
angry,  and  I  will  not  let  myself  be  discouraged.  It  is  quite 
useless  your  pressing  me  about  this  matter.  I  will  not 
tell." 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  purpose  going  alone 
into  the  great  London  world  to  seek  your  fortune,  without 
a  protector  ?  You  must  be  mad." 

"IhaveLetitia." 

"  Letitia  " — indignantly — "  is  a  very  handsome  woman, 
not  more  than  ten  years  older  than  yourself.  She  a  pro- 
tector!" 

"  I  can't  help  that." 

"  Yes,  you  can  ;  but  your — obstinacy — won't  allow  you. 
Do  you,  then,  intend  to  let  no  one  know  of  your  affairs  ?  " 

"  I  shall  confide  in  Cecil  Stafford,  because  I  can't  avoid 
it.  But  I  know  she  will  keep  my  secret  until  I  give  hei 
leave  to  speak." 

"  It  comes  to  this,  then,  that  you  consider  every  one  be< 
fore  me.  It  is  nothing  to  you  whether  I -eat  my  heart  ouf 
in  ignorance  of  whether  you  are  alive  or  dead." 

"Cecil  " — hastily — "may  tell  you  so  much." 

"  Thank  you  ;  this  is  a  wonderful  concession." 

"  Why  should  I  concede  at  all,  when,  as  I  have  said,  yo* 
are  no  longer  bound  to  me  ?  " 

"But  I  am, — more  strongly  so  than  ever;  and  I  insist, 


MOLL  y  BA  WN.  §\\ 

I  desire  you,  Molly,  to  let  me  know  what  it  is  you  intend 
doing." 

lie  looks  sterner  than  one  would  have  conceived  pos- 
sible for  him  ;  Miss  Massereene  evidently  thinks  him  inhu- 
manly so. 

"Don't  speak  to  me  like  that/'  she  says,  with  quivering 
lips.  "  You  should  not.  I  have  made  a  vow  not  to  dis- 
close my  secret  to  you  of  all  people,  and  would  you  have 
me  break  it?" 

"  But  why  ?"  impatiently. 

"  Because — have  I  not  told  you  already  ? — because  " — 
with  a  little  dry  sob — "  I  love  you  so  dearly  that  to  encour- 
age thoughts  of  you  would  unfit  me  for  my  work.  And  it 
is  partly  for  your  own  sake  I  do  it,  for  something  tells  me 
we  shall  never  marry  each  other ;  and  why  should  you 
spend  your  life  dreaming  of  a  shadow  ?  " 

"It  is  the  cruelest  resolution  a  woman  ever  formed," 
replies  he,  ignoring  as  beneath  notice  the  latter  part  of  her 
speech,  and,  putting  away  her  hands,  takes  once  more  to 
iis  irritable  promenade  up  and  down  the  room. 

Molly  is  crying,  silently,  exhaustedly.  "  My  burden  is 
too  heavy  for  me,"  she  murmurs,  faintly. 

"  Then  why  not  let  me  help  you  to  bear  it  ?  " 

"If  it  will  comfort  you,  Teddy" — brokenly — "I  will 

five  in  so  far  as  to  promise  to  write  to  you  in  six  months, 
ask  you  to  wait  till  then.  Is  it  too  long  ?  If  so,  remem- 
ber you  are  free — believe  me  it  will  be  better  so — and  I  per- 
haps shall  be  happier  in  the  thought "  And  here  in- 
continently she  breaks  down. 

"  Don't/'  says  Luttrell,  hurriedly,  whose  heart  grows 
faint  within  him  at  the  sight  of  her  distress.  "  Molly,  I 
give  in.  I  am  satisfied  with  your  last  promise.  I  shall 
wait  forever,  if  that  will  please  you.  Who  am  I,  that  I 
should  add  one  tear  to  the  many  you  have  already  shed  ? 
Forgive  me,  my  own  love." 

"  Yes,  but  do  not  say  anything  more  to  me  to-day  ;  I  am 
tired,"  says  Molly,  submitting  to  his  caresses,  though  still 
a  little  sore  at  heart. 

"  Only  one  thing  more."  says  this  insatiable  young  man, 
who  evidently  holds  in  high  esteem  the  maxim  to  " strike 
while  the  iron  is  hot."  "You  agree  to  a  renewal  of  our 
engagement  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so.  Although  I  know  it  is  an  act  of  selfish- 
ness on  my  part.  Nothing  can  possibly  come  of  it." 


318  MOLLY  SAWN. 

"  And  if  it  is  selfishness  in  you,  what  is  it  in  me  ?  "  asks 
he,  humbly.  "  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  I  am  no  match 
for  you,  who,  with  your  face,  your  voice""  (Molly  winces 
perceptibly),  "your  manner,  might  marry  whom  you 
choose.  Yet  I  do  ask  you  to  wait " — eagerly — "  until  some- 
thing comes  to  our  aid,  to  be  true  to  me,  no  matter  what 
happens,  until  I  can  claim  you." 

"  I  will  wait ;  I  will  be  true  to  you/'  she  answers,  with 
dewy  eyes  uplifted  to  his,  and  a  serene,  earnest  face.  As 
she  gives  her  promise  a  little  sigh  escapes  her,  more  full  of 
content,  I  think,  than  any  regret. 

After  coming  to  this  conclusion  they  talk  more  ration- 
ally for  an  hour  or  so  (a  lover's  hour,  dear  reader,  is  not  as 
other  hours  ;  it  never  drags ;  it  is  not  full  of  yawns ;  it 
does  not  make  us  curse  the  day  we  were  born)  ;  and  then 
Luttrell,  by  some  unlucky  chance,  discovers  he  must  tear 
himself  away. 

As  Molly  rises  to  bid  him  good-bye,  she  catches  her  breath, 
and  presses  her  hand  to  her  side. 

"  I  have  such  a  pain  here,"  she  says. 

"  You  don't  go  out,"  says  her  lover,  severely  ;  "  you 
want  air.  I  shall  speak  to  Letitia  if  you  won't  take  more 
3are  of  yourself." 

"  I  have  not  been  out  of  the  house  for  so  long,  I  quite 
dread  going." 

"  Then  go  to-morrow.  If  you  will  walk  to  the  wood 
nearest  you, — where  you  will  see  no  one, — I  will  meet  you 
there." 

"  Very  well,"  says  Molly,  obediently ;  and  when  they 
have  said  good-bye  for  the  fifth  time,  he  really  takes  his 
departure. 

How  to  reveal  her  weighty  secret  to  Letitia  troubles 
Molly  much, — an  intimate  acquaintance  with  her  sister-in- 
law's  character  causing  her  to  know  its  disclosure  will  be 
received  not  only  with  discouragement,  but  with  actual  dis- 
approval. And  yet — disclose  it  she  must. 

But  how  to  break  it  happily.  Having  thought  of  many 
ways  and  means,  and  rejected  them  all,  she  decides,  with  a 
sigh,  that  plain  speaking  will  be  best. 

"  Letitia,"  she  says,  this  very  evening, — Luttrell  having 
been  gone  some  hours, — "  do  you  know  Signer  Marigny's 
address  ?  " 

She  is  leaning  her  elbows  on  the  writing-table,  and  has 
let  her  rounded  chin  sink  into  her  palms'  embrace  ;  while 


MOLLY  BAWN.  JJJJ 

her  eyes  fix  themselves  steadily  upon  the  pen,  the  paper, 
anything  but  Letitia. 

"  Signer  Marigny !  Your  old  singing-master  ?  No. 
Why  do  you  ask,  dear  ?  " 

"  Because  I  want  to  write  to  him." 

"  Do  you  ?  And  what ?  No,  I  have  not  got  his  ad- 
dress; I  don't  believe  I  ever  had  it.  How  shall  you  manage  ?" 

"  I  dare  say  I  have  it  somewhere  myself  ;  don't  trouble/' 
says  Molly,  knowing  guiltily  it  lies  just  beneath  her  hand 
within  the  table-drawer.  She  is  glad  of  a  respite,  Letitia 
having  forborne  to  press  the  question. 

Not  for  long,  however  ;  human  nature  can  stand  a  good 
many  things,  but  curiosity  conquers  most. 

"  vYhy  are  you  writing  to  Signer  Marigny?"  Letitia 
asks,  in  a  gentle  tone  of  indifference,  after  a  full  five 
minutes'  pause,  during  which  she  has  been  devoured  with 
a  desire  to  know. 

"  Because  I  believe  he  will  help  me,"  says  Molly,  slowly. 
"I  have  been  thinking,  Letty, — thinking  very  seriously, — 
and  I  have  decided  upon  making  my  fortune — our  fortune 
• — out  of  my  voice." 

"Molly!" 

"Well,  dear,  and  why  not?  Do  not  dishearten  me, 
Letty ;  you  know  we  must  live,  and  what  other  plan  can 
you  suggest  ?  " 

fs  In  London  I  thought  perhaps  we  might  get  something 
to  do," — mournfully, — "  and  there  no  one  would  hear  of 
us.  I  have  rather  a  fancy  for  millinery,  and  one  of  those 
large  establishments  might  take  me,  while  you  could  go  as 
a  daily  governess,"  regarding  her  sister  doubtfully. 

"  Governess  !  oh,  no  !  The  insipidity,  the  drudgery  of 
it,  would  kill  me.  I  should  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  I 
Was  my  own  mistress  in  such  genteel  slavery.  Besides,  as 
a  concert  singer  (and  I  can  sing),  I  should  earn  as  much  in 
one  night,  probably,  as  I  should  otherwise  in  a  year." 

' '  Oh,  Molly  !  " — clasping  her  hands—"  I  cannot  bear  to 
think  of  it.  It  is  horrible  ;  the  publicity, — the  dreadful 
ordeal.  And  you  of  all  others, — my  pretty  Molly " 

"It  is  well  lam  pretty,"  says  Molly,  with  a  supreme 
effort  at  calmness  ;  "  they  say  a  pretty  woman  with  a  voice 
takes  better." 

"  Every  word  you  say  only  convinces  me  mnrp  n.nrl  more 
how  cruel  a  task  it  would  be.  And,  Moll 

would  not  wish  it," 


314  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

"  I  think  he  would  wish  me  to  do  my  duty,"  says  Molly, 
gazing  with  great  tearless  eyes  through  the  window  into 
space,  while  her  slender  fingers  meet  and  twine  together 
nervously.  "  Letitia,  why  cannot  you  be  thankful,  as  I 
am,  that  I  have  a  voice, — a  sure  and  certain  provision? — • 
because  I  know  I  can  sing  as  very  few  can.  (I  say  this 
gratefully,  and  without  any  vanity.)  Why,  without  it  wd 
might  starve." 

"  And  what  will  Tedcastle  say  ?  For,  in  spite  of  all 
your  arguments,  Molly,  I  am  sure  he  is  devoted  to  you 
still." 

"That  must  not  matter.  Our  engagement,  to  all  in* 
tents  and  purposes,  is  at  an  end,  because" — sighing — "we 
shall  never  marry.  He  is  too  poor,  and  I  am  too  poor, 
and,  besides" — telling  her  lie  bravely, — "I  do  not  wish  to 
marry  him." 

"I  find  it  hard  to  believe  you,"  says  Letitia,  examining 
the  girl's  face  critically.  "Do  you  me^n  to  tell  me  you 
tiave  ceased  to  care  for  him  ?  " 

"  How  do  I  know  ?  " — pettishly,  her  very  restlessness 
betraying  the  truth.  "At  times  I  am  not  sure  myself.  At 
all  events,  everything  is  at  an  end  between  us,  which  is  the 
principal  thing,  as  he  cannot  now  interfere  with  my  de- 
cision." 

"  Do  not  think  you  can  deceive  me,"  says  Letitia,  in  a 
trembling  tone.  "  Ah,  how  cruel  it  all  is  !  Death  when 
it  visits  most  homes,  leaves  at  least  hope  behind,  but  here 
there  is  none.  Other  women  lose  fortune,  or  perhaps  posi- 
tion, or  it  may  be  love  ;  but  I  have  lost  all ;  while  you — 
with  all  your  young  life  before  you — would  sacrifice  your- 
self for  us.  I  am  not  wholly  selfish,  Molly ;  I  refuse  to 
accept  your  offer.  I  refuse  to  take  your  happiness  at  your 
hands." 

(i  My  happiness  is  yours,"  returns  Molly,  tenderly  ;  "re- 
fuse to  let  me  help  you,  and  the  little  shred  of  comfort  that 
still  remains  to  me  vanishes  with  the  rest.  Letitia,  you  are 
my  home  now  :  do  not  reject  me." 

Two  sad  little  tears  run  down  her  pale  cheeks  un- 
checked. Letitia,  unable  to  bear  the  sight,  turns  away  ; 
and  presently  two  kindred  drops  steal  down  her  face,  and 
fall  with  a  faint  splashing  sound  upon  her  heavy  crape. 

"It  would  be  such  a  hateful  life  for  you,"  she  says,  with 
»  sigh. 

"J  don't  think  so.     I  like  singing;  and  the  knowledge 


MOLLY  BAWN.  315 

that  by  it  I  was  actually  helping  yon — who  all  my  life  have 
been  my  true  and  loving  sister — would  make  my  task 
sweet.  What  shall  I  say  to  Signor  Marigny,  Letty  ?  "  with 
a  sudden  air  of  business.  "  He  has  a  great  deal  to  do  with 
concerts  and  that ;  and  I  know  he  will  assist  me  in  every 
way." 

"Tell  him  you  are  about  to  sacrifice  your  love,  your 
happiness,  everything  that  makes  life  good,  for  your 
family,"  says  Letitia,  who  has  begun  to  cry  bitterly,  "and 
ask  him  what  will  compensate  you  for  it  ;  ask  him  if  gold, 
or  fame,  or  praise,  will  fill  the  void  that  already  you  have 
begun  to  feel." 

"Nonsense,  my  dear!  he  would  justly  consider  me  a 
lunatic,  were  I  to  write  to  him  in  such  a  strain.  I  shall 
simply  tell  him  that  I  wish  to  make  use  of  the  talent  that 
has  been  given  me,  and  ask  him  for  his  advice  how  best  to 
proceed.  Don't  you  think  something  like  that  would 
answer  ?  Come  now,  Letty,"  cheerfully  and  coaxingly, 
kneeling  down  before  Mrs.  Massereene,  "  say  you  are 
pleased  with  my  plan,  and  all  will  be  we'll." 

"  What  would  become  of  me  without  you  ?"  says  Le- 
titia, irrelevantly,  kissing  her ;  and  Molly,  taking  this  for 
consent,  enters  into  a  long  and  animated  discussion  on  the 
subject  of  her  intended  debut  as  a  public  singer. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

"  Who  ne'er  have  loved,  and  loved  in  vain, 
Can  neither  feel  nor  pity  pain." — BYRON. 

TRUE  to  her  promise,  the  next  day  Molly  wraps  herself 
up  warmly  and  takes  her  way  toward  the  wood  that  ad- 
joins but  does  not  belong  to  Brooklyn. 

At  first,  from  overmuch  inactivity  and  spiritless  brood- 
ing, a  sort  of  languor — a  trembling  of  the  limbs — oppresses 
her  ;  but  presently,  as  the  cold,  crisp  air  creeps  into  her 
young  blood,  she  quickens  her  steps,  and  is  soon  walking 
with  a  brisk  and  healthy  motion  toward  the  desired  spot. 

Often  her  eyes  fill  with  unbidden  tears,  as  many  a  well- 
remembered  place  is  passed,  and  she  thinks  of  a  kindly  word 
or  a  gay  jest  uttered  here  by  lips  now  cold  and  mute. 


316  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

There  Is  a  sadness  in  the  wood  itself  that  harmonizes 
with  her  thoughts.  The  bare  trees,  the  fast-decaying  leaves 
beneath  her  feet,  all  speak  of  death  and  change.  Swin- 
burne's exquisite  lines  rise  involuntarily  to  her  mind  : 

"  Lo,  the  summer  is  dead,  the  sun  is  faded, 
Even  like  as  a  leaf  the  year  is  withered. 
All  the  fruit  of  the  day  from  all  her  branches 
Gathered,  neither  is  any  left  to  gather. 
All  the  flowers  are  dead,  the  tender  blossoms,  • 

All  are  taken  away  ;  the  season  wasted  ' 

Like  an  ember  among  the  fallen  ashes." 

Seating  herself  upon  a  little  grassy  mound,  with  her  head 
thrown  back  against  the  trunk  of  a  gnarled  but  kindly 
beech,  she  waits  her  lover's  coming.  She  is  very  early. 
almost  by  her  own  calculation  half  an  hour  must  elapse  be- 
fore he  can  join  her.  Satisfied  that  she  cannot  see  him  until 
then,  she  is  rapidly  falling  into  a  gentle  doze,  when  footsteps 
behind  her  cause  her  to  start  into  a  sitting  posture. 

"  So  soon/'  she  says,  and,  rising,  finds  herself  face  to 
face  with — Philip  Shad  well. 

"  You  see,  I  have  followed  you,"  he  says,  slowly. 

He  does  not  offer  to  shake  hands  with  her  ;  he  gives  her 
no  greeting ;  he  only  stands  before  her,  suffering  his  eyes 
to  drink  in  hungrily  her  saddened  but  always  perfect 
beauty. 

"  So  I  see,"  she  answers,  quite  slowly. 

"  You  have  been  in  trouble.  You  have  grown  thin,"  h* 
says,  presently,  in  the  same  tone. 

"Yes." 

She  is  puzzled,  dismayed,  at  his  presence  here,  feeling  an 
unaccountable  repugnance  to  his  society,  and  a  longing  for 
his  departure,  as  she  notes  his  unwonted  agitation, — the 
unknown  but  evident  purpose  in  his  eyes. 

"  When  last  we  met,"  says  Philip,  with  a  visible  effort 
at  calmness,  and  with  his  great  dark,  moody  eyes  bent  upon 
the  ground,  "you  told  me  you — hated  me." 

"Did  I  ?  The  last  time  ?  How  long  ago  it  seems  ! — 
years — centuries.  Ah  ! " — clasping  her  hands  in  a  verj 
ecstasy  of  regret — "  how  happy  I  was  then  !  and  yet — 1 
thought  myself  miserable  !  That  day  I  spoke  to  you  * 
(gazing  at  him  as  one  sfazes  at  something  outside  and  be- 
yond the  question  altogether).  "T  absolutely  believed  I 
knew  what  unhappiness  meant ;  and  now——" 


MOLLY  BAWN. 


'  Yes.  You  said  you  hated  me,"  says  the  young  man, 
ttill  bent  upon  his  own  wrongs  to  the  exclusion  of  all  others. 
He  is  sorry  for  her,  very  sorry  ;  but  what  is  her  honest  grief 
for  her  beloved  dead  compared  with  the  desperate  craving 
for  the  unattainable  that  is  consuming  liim  daily,  _ 
hourly  ? 


power  within  me  now  to  hate  any  one." 

"  You  did  not  mean  it,  perhaps  ?  "  still  painfully  calm, 
although  he  knows  the  moments  of  grace  are  slipping 
surely,  swiftly,  trying  vainly  to  encourage  hope.  "You 
said  it,  perhaps,  in  an  instant  of  passion  ?  One  often  does. 
One  exaggerates  a  small  offense.  Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"Yes," — with  her  thoughts  as  far  from  him  as  the  earth 
is  from  the  heavens, — "it  may  be  so." 

"  You  think  so  ?  You  did  not  mean  it  ?  "  with  a  sud- 
den gleam  of  misplaced  confidence.  "  Oh  !  if  you  only 
knew  how  I  have  suffered  since  that  fatal  word  passed  your 
lips  ! — but  you  did  not  mean  it.  In  time — who  knows  ? — 
you  may  even  bring  yourself  to  care  for  me  a  little. 
Molly," — seizing  her  hand, — "speak — speak,  and  say  it 
will  be  so." 

"No,  no,"  exclaims  she,  at  last,  coming  back  to  the 
present,  and  understanding  him.  "  Never.  Why  do  you 
so  deceive  yourself  ?  Do  not  think  it ;  do  not  try  to  believe 
it.  And" — with  a  quick  shudder — "to  speak  to  me  so 
now, — at  this  time " 

"  Perhaps,  had  I  known  you  first,  you  might  have  loved 
me,"  persists  he. 

"I  am  sure  not,"  replies  she,  gently  but  decidedly. 
"Your  dark  looks,  your  vehemence, — all — frighten  me." 

"  Once  assured  of  your  love,  I  could  change  all  that,"  he 
perseveres,  unwisely,  in  a  low  tone,  his  passionate,  gloomy 
eyes  still  fixed  upon  the  ground,  his  loot  uneasily  stirring 
the  chilled  blades  of  grass  beneath  him.  "  In  such  a  case, 
what  is  it  I  could  not  do?  Molly,  will  you  not  take  pity 
on  me  ?  Will  you  not  give  me  a  chance  ?  " 

"  I  cannot.  "  Why  will  you  persist  ?  I  tell  you,  if  we 
two  were  to  live  forever,  you  are  the  very  last  man  I  should 
ever  love.  It  is  the  kindest  thing  I  can  do  for  you  to  speak 
thus  plainly." 

"  Kind  !""— bitterly  j  "  can  yon  be  kind  ?    With  your 


318  MOLL  y  BA  WN. 

fair,  soft  face,  and  your  angel  eyes,  you  are  the  most  bitterly 
cruel  woman  I  ever  met  in  my  life.  I  curse  the  day  I  first 
saw  you  !  You  have  ruined  my  happiness." 

"  Philip,  do  not  speak  like  that.  You  cannot  mean  n. 
In  a  few  short  months  you  will  forget  you  have  ever  ut- 
tered such  words, — or  felt  them.  See,  now/' — laying  the 
tips  of  her  fingers  kindly  upon  his  arm, — "  put  away  from 
\;ou  this  miserable  fancy,  and  I  will  be  your  friend — if  you 
will." 

"  Friend!"  retorts  he,  roughly.  "Who  that  had  seen 
and  loved  you  could  coldly  look  upon  you  as  a  friend  ? 
Every  thought  of  my  heart,  every  action  of  my  life,  haa 
you  mixed  up  in  it.  Your  face  is  burned  into  my  brain. 
I  live  but  in  recollection  of  you,  and  you  speak  to  me  ci 
friendship  !  I  tell  you,"  says  Philip,  almost  reducing 
himself  again  to  calmness  through  intensity  of  emotion, 
"  I  am  fighting  for  my  very  existence.  I  must  and  will 
have  you. ' 

"  Why  will  you  talk  so  wildly  ?  " — turning  a  little  pale, 
and  retreating  a  step:  "you  know  what  you  propose,  to 
be  impossible." 

":  •  There  is  nothing  impossible,  if  you  will  only  try  to 
look  upon  me  more  kindly." 

"Am  I  to  tell  you  again,"  she  says,  still  gently,  but  with 
some  natural  indignation,  "  that  if  I  knew  you  for  ever  and 
ever,  I  could  not  feel  for  you  even  the  faintest  spark  of  af- 
fection of  the  kind  you  mean  !  I  would  not  marry  you  for 
all  the  bribes  you  could  offer.  It  is  not  your  fault  that  it 
is  so,  nor  is  it  mine.  You  say  ( try '  to  love  you.  Can  love 
be  forced  ?  Did  ever  any  one  grow  to  love  another  througfc 
trying  ?  You  know  better.  The  more  one  would  have  to 
try,  the  less  likely  would  one  be  to  succeed.  Love  is  free, 
and  yet  a  very  tyrant.  Oh,  Philip,  forget  such  vain 
thoughts.  Do  not  waste  your  life  hoping  for  what  can 
never  be." 

"  It  shall  be,"  cries  he,  vehemently,  suddenly,  with  an 
unexpected  movement  catching  her  in  his  arms.  "  Molly, 
if  I  cannot  buy  your  love,  let  me  at  least  buy  yourself.  Re- 
member how  you  are  now  situated.  You  do  not  yet  know 
the  horrors  of  poverty, — real  poverty ;  and  I — at  least  I 
have  prospects.  Herat  will  be  mine  beyond  all  doubt  (wh« 
can  be  preferred  before  me  ?),  and  that  old  man  cannot  livo 
forever.  Think  of  your  sister  and  all  her  children  ;  I  swear 
I  will  provide  for  all ;  not  one  but  shall  be  to  me  as  mj 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  31$) 

own,  for  your  sake.  You  shall  do  what  you  like  with  rue. 
Body  and  soul  I  am  yours  for  good  or  evil.  Let  it  bo  for 
good/' 

"  How  dare  you  speak  to  me  like  this  ?  "  says  Molly,  who 
has  tried  vainly  to  escape  from  his  detested  embrace  during 
the  short  time  it  has  taken  him  to  pour  forth  his  last  words. 
"  Let  me  go  instantly.  Do  you  hear  me,  Philip  ? — release 
me." 

Her  blue  eyes  have  turned  almost  black  with  a  little 
fear  and  unlimited  anger,  her  lips  are  white  but  firm,  her 
very  indignation  only  making  her  more  fair. 

"  I  will,  when  you  have  given  me  some  ground  for  hope. 
Promise  you  will  consider  my  words." 

"  Not  for  a  single  instant.  When  a  few  moments  ago  I 
hinted  how  abhorrent  you  are  to  me,  I  spoke  truly ;  I  only 
lied  when  I  tried  to  soften  my  words.  I  would  rather  ten 
thousand  times  be  dead  than  your  wife.  Now  I  hope  you 
understand.  Your  very  touch  makes  me  shudder." 

She  ceases,  more  from  want  of  breath  than  words,  and 
a  deep  silence  falls  between  them.  Even  through  the  bare 
and  melancholy  trees  the  wind  has  forgotten  to  shiver. 
Above,  the  clouds,  rain-filled,  scud  hurriedly.  A  storm  ia 
in  the  air.  Upon  Philip's  face  a  deadlier  storm  is  gather- 
ing. 

"Have  you  anything  more  to  say?"  he  asks,  an  evil 
look  coming  into  his  eyes.  Not  for  a  second  has  he  re- 
laxed his  hold. 

Molly's  heart  sinks  a  little  lower.  Oh  !  if  Tedcastle 
would  only  come  !  yet  with  a  certain  bravery  she  compels 
herself  to  return  without  flinching  the  gaze  of  the  dark 
passionate  face  bent  above  hers.  She  knows  every  limb  in 
her  body  is  trembling,  that  a  deadly  sickness  is  creeping 
over  her,  yet  by  a  supreme  effort  she  maintains  her  calm- 
ness. 

•''Nothing,"  she  answers,  quietly,  with  just  a  touch  of 
scorn.  "  I  should  have  thought  I  had  said  enough  to  con- 
vince any  man.  Now  will  you  let  me  go  home  ?  You  can- 
not want  to  keep  me  here  after  what  I  have  said." 

"I  wonder  you  are  not  afraid  of  me/'  says  Shad  well, 
who  is  absolutely  beside  himself  with  anger.  "  Do  not 
put  unlimited  faith  in  my  forbearance.  A  worm,  you  know, 
will  turn.  Do  you  think  you  can  goad  a  man  to  despera- 
tion and  leave  him  as  cool  as  when  you  began  ?  I  confess 
I  am  not  made  of  such  stuff.  Do  you  know  you  are  ia 


320  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

my  power  ?    What  is  to  prevent  my  killing  you  here,  now 
this  moment  ?" 

He  speaks  slowly,  as  though  his  breath  comes  with  diffi- 
culty, so  much  has  anger  overmastered  him  ;  yet  her  eyes 
have  never  fallen  before  his,  and  he  knows,  in  spite  of  his 
words,  he  has  not  the  smallest  mastery  over  her,  he  has 
gained  no  triumph. 

"  I  wish  you  were  dead/'  he  goes  on,  in  a  compressed 
tone,  "  and  myself  too.  To  be  sure,  that  if  you  were  not 
mine  you  would  never  be  another's,  has  in  it  a  sweetness 
that  tempts  me.  They  say  extremes  meet.  I  hardly  know, 
now,  where  my  love  for  you  ends,  or  where  my  hatred  be- 
gins." 

His  violence  terrifies  Molly. 

"  Philip,  be  generous,"  she  says,  laying  her  hand  against 
his  chest  with  a  vain  attempt  to  break  from  him  ;  "  and — 
and — try  to  be  calm.  Your  eyes  have  madness  in  them. 
Even  if  you  were  to  kill  me,  what  good  would  it  do  you  ? 
And  think  of  the  afterward.  Oh,  what  have  I  ever  done 
to  you  that  you  should  seek  to — to — unnerve  me  like  this  ?  " 

"  '  What  have  you  done  ?'  Shall  I  tell  you  ?  You  have 
murdered  me  surely  as  though  your  knife  had  entered  my 
heart.  You  have  killed  every  good  thought  in  me,  every 
desire  that  might  perhaps  have  had  some  element  of  noble- 
ness in  it.  I  was  bad  enough  before  I  met  you,  I  dare  say  ; 
but  you  have  made  me  ten  times  worse." 

"It  is  all  false.  I  will  not  listen  to  you," — covering  her 
ears  with  her  hands.  But  he  takes  them  down  again,  gently 
but  determinedly,  and  compels  her  to  hear  him. 

"  When  you  first  came  to  Herst  for  your  own  amuse- 
ment, to  pass  away  the  hours  that  perhaps  hung  a  little 
heavily  upon  your  hands,  or  to  rouse  a  feeling  of  jealousy 
in  the  heart  of  Luttrell,  or  to  prove  the  power  you  have 
over  all  men  by  the  right  of  your  fatal  beauty,  you  played 
off  upon  me  all  the  pretty  airs  and  graces,  all  the  sweet 
looks  and  tender  words,  that  come  so  easy  to  you,  never 
caring  what  torment  I  might  have  to  endure  when  your 
dainty  pastime  had  palled  upon  you.  Day  by  day  I  was 
!ed  to  believe  that  I  was  more  to  you  than  those  others  who 
also  waited  on  your  words." 

"That  is  false, — false.     Your  own  vanity  misled  you." 

"  I  was  the  one  singled  out  to  escort  you  here,  to  bear 
your  messages  thore.  Now  and  again  you  threw  me  flowers, 
net  half  so  honeyed  as  your  smiles.  And  when  you  had 


MVLL  Y  BA  WX.  30^ 

rendered  me  half  mad — nay,  I  think  wholly  ao — for  love  of 
you,  and  I  asked  you  to  be  my  wife,  you  asked  me  in  re- 
turn *  what  I  meant,'  pretending  an  innocent  ignorance  of 
having  done  anything  to  encourage  me." 

"  I  do  not  think  I  have  done  all  this,"  says  Molly,  with 
a  little  gasping  sigh  ;  "  but  if  I  have  I  regret  it.  I  repent 
it.  I  pray  your  forgiveness." 

"  And  I  will  grant  it  on  one  condition.  Swear  you  will 
be  my  wife." 

She  does  not  answer.  He  is  so  vehement  that  she  fears 
to  provoke  him  further  ;  yet  nothing  but  a  decided  refusal 
can  be  given.  She  raises  her  head  and  regards  him  with  a 
carefully-concealed  shudder,  and  as  she  does  so  Luttrell's 
fair,  beautiful  face — even  more  true  than  beautiful,  his 
eyes  so  blue  and  earnest,  his  firm  but  tender  mouth — riseg 
before  her.  She  thinks  of  his  devotion,  his  deep,  honest 
love,  and  without  thinking  any  further  she  says,  "No," 
with  much  more  decided  emphasis  than  prudence  would 
have  permitted. 

"  'No  ! '"  repeats  he,  furiously.  "Do  you  still  defy  me? 
Are  you  then  so  faithful  to  the  memory  of  the  man  who 
cast  you  oif  ?  Have  you,  perhaps,  renewed  your  engage- 
ment with  him?  If  I  thought  that, — if  I  was  sure  of 
that Speak,  and  say  if  it  be  so." 

The  strain  is  too  great.  Molly's  brave  heart  fails  her. 
She  gives  a  little  gasping  cry,  and  with  it  her  courage  dis- 
appears. Raising  her  face  in  mute  appeal  to  the  bare  trees, 
to  the  rushing,  comfortless  wind,  to  the  murky  sky,  she 
bursts  into  a  storm  of  tears. 

"  Oh,  if  my  brother  were  but  alive,"  cries  she,  in  pas- 
sionate protest,  "  you  would  not  dare  treat  me  like  this  ! 
Oh,  John,  John,  where  are  you  ?  It  is  I,  your  Molly  Bawn. 
Why  are  you  silent  ?  "  , 

Her  sobs  fall  upon  the  chilly  air.  Her  tears  drop 
through  her  fingers  down  upon  the  brown-tinged  grass, 
upon  a  foolish  frozen  daisy  that  has  outlived  its  fellows, — 
upon  her  companion's  heart  ! 

With  a  groan  h.3  comes  to  his  senses,  releases  her,  and, 
moving  away,  covers  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  Don't  do  that,"  he  says.  "  Stop  crying.  What  a  brute 
I  am  !  Molly,  Molly,  be  gilent,  I  desire  you.  I  am  punished 
enough  already." 

Hardly  daring  to  believe  herself  free,  and  dreading  a 
selapse  on  Philip's  part,  and  being  still  a  good  deal  over- 


333  MOLL  r  £A  WN". 

strung  and  frightened,  Miss  Massereene  sobs  on  very  suc- 
cessfully, while  even  at  this  moment  secretly  reproaching 
herself  in  that  she  did  not  pocket  her  pride  half  an  hour 
ago,  and  give  way  to  the  tears  that  have  had  such  a  fortu- 
nate effect. 

Just  at  this  juncture,  Luttrell,  clearing  a  stile  that  sepa- 
rates him  from  them,  appears  upon  the  scene.  His  dismay 
on  seeing  Molly  in  tears  almost  obliterates  the  displeased 
amazement  with  which  he  regards  Philip's  unexpected  ap- 
pearance. 

"  Molly/'  he  calls  out  to  her,  even  from  the  distance, 
some  undefined  instinct  telling  him  she  will  be  glad  of  hia 
presence.  And  Molly,  hearing  him,  raises  her  head,  and 
without  a  word  or  cry  runs  to  nim,  and  flings  herself  into 
the  fond  shelter  of  his  arms. 

As  he  holds  her  closely  in  his  young,  strong,  ardent  em- 
brace, a  great  peace — a  joy  that  is  almost  pain — comes  to 
her.  Had  she  still  any  lingering  doubts  of  her  love  for  him, 
this  moment,  in  which  he  stands  by  her  as  a  guardian,  a 
•protector,  a  true  lover,  would  forever  dispel  them. 

"  You  here,"  says  Luttrell,  addressing  Philip  with  a 
frown,  while  his  face  flames,  and  then  grows  white  as 
Shad  well's  own,  "and  Miss  Massereene  in  tears  !  Ex- 
plain  " 

"Better  leave  explanation  to  another  time,  "interrupts 
Philip,  with  insolent  hauteur,  his  repentant  mood  having 
vanished  with  Luttrell's  arrival,  "and  take  Miss  Massereene 
home.  She  is  tired." 

So  saying,  he  turns  coolly  on  his  heel,  and  walks  away. 

Luttrell  makes  an  angry  movement  as  though  to  follow 
him  ;  but  Molly  with  her  arms  restrains  him. 

"Do  not  leave  me,"  she  says,  preparing  to  cry  again 
directly  if  he  shows  any  determination  to  have  it  out  with 
Shad  well.  "Stay  with  me.  I  feel  so  nervous  and — and 
faint." 

"Do  you,  darling ? "  Regarding  her  anxiously.  "  You 
do  look  pale.  What  was  Shadwelf  saying  to  you  ?  Why 
were  you  crying  ?  If  I  thought  he " 

"Jwo,  no,"— laying  five  hasty,  convincing  little  fingers 
on  his  arm, — "nothing  of  the  kind.  Won't  you  believe 
me  ?  He  only  reminded  me  of  past  days,  and  I  was  fool, 
ish,  and — that  was  all." 

"  But  what  brought  him  at  all  ?  " 

"  To  see  me/'  says  Molly,  longing  yet  fearing  to  tell  him 


MOLL  Y  MA  WN.  333 

of  Philip's  unpardonable  behavior.  "But  do  not  let  ua 
talk  of  him.  I  cannot  bear  him.  He  makes  me  positively 
nervous.  He  is  so  dark,  so  vehement,  so— uncanny  ! " 

"The  fellow  isn't  much  of  a  fellow,  certainly,"  says  Lut- 
trell,  with  charming  explicitness. 

For  the  mile  that  lies  between  them  and  home,  they 
scarcely  speak, — walking  together,  as  children  might,  hand 
in  hand,  but  in  a  silence  unknown  to  our  household  pests. 

"How  quiet  you  are  !"  Molly  says,  at  length  awakening 
to  the  fact  of  her  lover's  dumbness.  "  What  are  you  think- 
ing about  ?  " 

"  You,  of  course,"  he  answers,  with  a  rather  joyless  smile. 
"I  have  received  my  marching  orders.  I  must  join  my 
regiment  in  Dublin  next  Saturday." 

"  And  this  is  Tuesday  ! "  Aghast  at  the  terrible  news. 
"  Oh,  Teddy  !  Could  they  not  have  left  us  together  for 
the  few  last  days  that  remain  to  us  ?  " 

"  It  appears  they  could  not/'  replies  he,  with  a  prolonged 
and  audible  sigh. 

"  I  always  said  your  colonel  was  a  bear,"  says  Miss  Mas- 
aereene,  vindictively. 

"  Well,  but  you  see,  he  doesn't  know  how  matters  stand  ; 
he  never  heard  of  you,"  replies  Luttrell,  apologetically. 

"  Well,  he  ought  to  know  ;  and  even  if  he  did,  he  would 
do  it  all  the  more.  Oh,  Teddy  !  dear  Teddy  !  "—with  a 
sudden  change  of  tone,  thoroughly  appreciated  by  one  indi- 
ridual  at  least, — "  what  shall  I  do  without  you  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

"When  we  two  parted  in  silence  and  tears, 
Half  broken-hearted,  to  sever  for  years, 
Pale  grew  thy  cheek,  and  cold,  colder  thy  kiss."— BTROX, 

THET  have  wandered  down  once  more  by  the  river-sido 
where  first  he  told  her  how  he  loved  her.  To-night,  again 
the  moon  is  shining  brightly,  again  the  stream  runs  rip- 
pling by,  but  not,  as  then,  with  a  joyous  love-song  ;  now 
it  sounds  sad  as  death,  and  "  wild  with  all  regret,"  as  though 
mourning  for  the  flowers— the  sweet  fond  forget-me-nots— 
that  used  to  grace  its  banks, 


334  X9LL  Y  9A  WN. 

Their  hands  are  clasped,  his  arm  is  round  her ;  her  head 
drooping,  dejected  (unlike  the  gay  capricious  Molly  of  a  few 
months  t>ack),  is  leaning  on  his  breast. 

Large  tears  are  falling  silently,  without  a  sob,  down  her 
white  cheeks,  because  to-night  they  say  their  last  farewell. 
It  is  one  of  those  bitter  partings,  such  as  "  press  the  life 
from  out  young  hearts  "  and  makes  them  doubt  the  good 
that  this  world  conceals  even  in  the  very  core  of  its  disap 
pointments. 

"  I  feel  as  though  I  were  losing  all,"  says  Molly,  in  a 
despairing  tone.  "  First  John,  and  now — you.  Oh,  how 
difficult  a  thing  is  life  !  how  hard,  how  cruel  !  "  Yet  only 
a  month  before  she  was  singing  its  praises  with  all  the  self' 
confidence  of  foolish  ignorant  youth. 

"  While  I  am  alive  you  do  not  lose  me,"  he  answers, 
pressing  his  lips  to  her  soft  hair  and  brow.  ' '  But  I  am 
unhappy  about  you,  my  own  :  at  the  risk  of  letting  you 
think  me  importunate,  I  would  ask  you  again  to  reconsider 
your  decision,  and  let  me  know  how  it  is  you  propose  fight- 
ing this  cold  world." 

Unable  to  refuse  him  audibly,  and  still  determined  to 
adhere  to  her  resolution  to  let  nothing  interfere  with  her 
self-imposed  task,  she  maintains  a  painful  silence,  merely 
turning  her  head  from  side  to  side  upon  his  chest  uneasily. 

"  You  still  refuse  me  ?  Do  you  not  think,  Molly," — re- 
proachfully,— "  your  conduct  toward  me  is  a  little  cold  and 
unfeeling  ?  " 

"  No,  no.  Do  not  misjudge  me  :  indeed  I  am  acting 
for  the  best.  See," — placing  two  bare  white  arms  around 
his  neck,  that  gleam  with  snowy  softness  in  the  moonlight 
against  the  mournful  draperies  that  fall  away  from  them, — 
"  if  I  were  cold  and  unfeeling  would  I  do  this  ?  "  pressing 
ler  tender  lips  to  his.  "Would  I?  You  know  I  would 
not.  I  am  a  coward  too,  and  fear  you  would  not  look  upon 
my  plan  as  favorably  as  I  do.  Darling,  forgive  and  trust 
me." 

"Are  you  going  on  the  stage?  "  asks  he,  after  a  pause, 
fcnd  with  evident  hesitation. 

"  Why  ?  "  with  a  forlorn  little  smile.  "  If  I  were,  would 
you  renounce  me  ?  " 

"  Need  I  answer  that  ?  But  you  are  so  young,  so  pretty, 
— I  am  afraid,  my  darling,  it — it  would  be  unpleasant  for 
you." 

"Be  satisfied  :  I  am  not  thinking  of  the  stage.     But  dg 


MOLLY  BAWN.  333 

not  question  me,  Teddy.  I  shall  write  to  you,  as  I  have 
promised,  in  six  months,  —  if  I  succeed." 

"And  if  you  fail?  " 

"  I  suppose  then  —  I  shall  write  to  you  too/'  she  answers, 
with  a  sigh  and  a  faint  smile.  "But  I  shall  not  fail. 
After  all,  success  will  bring  me  no  nearer  to  you  :  I  shall 
always  have  the  children  to  provide  for/'  she  says,  despond- 


We  can  at  least  live  and  hope." 

He  draws  her  shawl,  which  has  slipped  to  the  ground, 
close  round  her,  and  mutely,  gloomily,  they  stand  listening 
to  the  murmuring  of  the  sympathetic  stream. 

"I  always  think  of  this  spot  as  the  dearest  on  earth,  "he 
says,  after  a  pause.  "  Here  I  picture  you  to  myself  with 
your  hands  full  of  forget-me-nots.  I  have  a  large  bunch 
of  them  yet,  the  same  you  gathered  ;  faded,  it  is  true,  to 
others,  but  never  so  to  me.  They  will  always  be  as  fresh 
in  my  eyes  as  on  the  evening  I  took  them  from  you.  '  Mj 
sweet  love's  flowers.'  Darling,  darling,"  pressing  her  to  his 
heart  in  a  very  agony  of  regret,  "when  shall  we  two  stand 
here  again  together  ?  " 

"  Never,"  she  whispers  back,  in  a  prophetic  tone,  ana 
with  a  trembling,  sobbing  sigh  more  sad  than  any  tears. 

"  Give  me  something  to  remember  you  by,  —  something 
to  remind  me  of  to-night." 

"Shall  you  need  it?"  asks  she,  and  then  raising  her 
hands  she  loosens  all  her  pretty  hair,  letting  it  fall  in  a 
bright  shower  around  her.  "You  shall  have  one  little 
lock  all  to  yourself/'  she  says.  "  Choose,  and  cut  it  whertf 
you  will." 

Tenderly  he  selects  a  shining  tress,  —  a  very  small  one, 
so  loath  is  he,  even  for  his  own  benefit,  to  lessen  the  glory 
of  her  hair,  —  and,  severing  it,  consigns  it  to  the  back  case 
of  his  watch. 

"That  is  a  good  place  to  keep  it,"  she  says,  with  an  up- 
ward glance  that  permits  him  to  see  the  love  that  lives  for 
him  in  her  dewy  eyes.  "  At  least  every  night  when  you 
wind  your  watch  you  must  think  of  me." 

"I  shall  think  of  you  morning,  noon,  and  night,  foi 
that  matter." 

"  And  I,—  when  shall  I  think  of  you  ?  And  yet  of  what 
avail  ?  "  cries  she,  in  despair  ;  "  all  our  thought  will  be  of 
no  use.  It  will  not  bring  us  together.  We  must  be  al- 
ways separate,  —  always  apart.  Not  all  our  longing 


33G  MOLL  y  BA  Wtf.  >  .    •      , 

bring   us  one  day  nearer  to  each  other.      Our  lives   are 
broken  asunder." 

"  Do  not  let  us  waste  our  last  moments  talking  folly/' 
replies  he,  calmly  ;  "nothing  earthly  shall  separate  us." 

"  Yet  time,  they  say,  kills  all  things.  It  may  perhaps — 
kill — even  your  love." 

"  You  wrong  me,  Molly,  in  even  supposing  it.  '  They 
sin,  who  tell  us  love  can  die/"  quotes  he,  softly,  in  a  ten- 
der, solemn  tone.  "  My  love  for  you  is  deathless.  Be-' 
loved,  be  assured  of  this,  were  we  two  to  live  until  old  age 
crept  on  us,  I  should  still  carry  to  my  grave  my  love  for 
you." 

He  is  so  earnest  that  in  spite  of  herself  a  little  unac- 
knowledged comfort  comes  into  her  heart.  She  feels  it  is 
no  flimsy  passion  of  an  hour  he  is  giving  her,  but  a  true 
affection  that  will  endure  forever. 

"  How  changed  you  are  ! "  he  says  presently ;  "  you, 
who  used  to  be  so  self-reliant,  have  now  lost  all  your  cour- 
age. Try  to  be  brave,  Molly,  for  both  our  sakes.  And — 
as  I  must  soon  go — tell  me,  what  is  your  parting  injunction 
tome?" 

"  The  kindest  thing  I  can  say  to  you  is — forget  me." 

"  Then  say  something  unkind.  Do  you  imagine  I  shall 
take  two  such  hateful  words  as  a  farewell  ?  " 

"  Then  don't  forget  me  ;  be  sure  you  don't,"  cries  she, 
bursting  into  tears. 

The  minutes  are  flying :  surely  never  have  they  flown 
with  such  cruel  haste. 

"  Come,  let  us  go  in-doors,"  she  says,  when  she  has  re- 
covered herself.  "  I  suppose  it  is  growing  late." 

"  I  shall  not  go  in  again  ;  I  have  said  good-bye  to  Mrs. 
Massereene.  It  only  remains  to  part  from  you." 

They  kiss  each  other  tenderly. 

"  I  shall  walk  as  far  as  the  gate  with  you,"  says  Molly  ; 
and,  with  a  last  lingering  glance  at  their  beloved  nook, 
they  go  silently  away. 

When  they  reach  the  gate  they  pause  and  look  at  each 
other  in  speechless  sorrow.  Like  all  partings,  it  seems  at 
the  moment  final,  and  plants  within  their  hearts  the  germs 
of  an  unutterable  regret. 

"  Good-bye,  my  life,  my  darling,"  he  whispers,  brokenly, 
straining  her  to  him  as  though  he  never  means  again  to  let 
her  go :  then,  almost  pushing  her  away,  he  turns  and 
leaves  her. 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  337 

But  she  cannot  part  from  him  yet.  When  he  has  gone 
a  hundred  yards  or  more,  she  runs  after  him  along  the 
quiet  moonlit  road  and  throws  herself  once  more  into  his 
arms. 

"  Teddy,  Teddy,"  she  cries,  "  do  not  go  yet,"  and  falla 
to  weeping  as  though  her  heart  would  break.  "  It  is  the 
bitterness  of  death,"  she  says,  "  and  it  is  death.  I  know 
we  shall  never  meet  again." 

"  Do  not  speak  like  that,"  he  entreats,  in  deep  agita- 
tion. "I  know — I  believe — we  shall  indeed  meet  again, 
and  under  happier  circumstances." 

"Ah,  you  can  find  comfort !"  Reproachfully.  "You 
are  not  half  sorry  to  part  from  me." 

"Oh,  Molly,  be  reasonable." 

"  If  you  can  find  any  consolation  at  this  moment,  you 
are  not.  And — if  you  meet  any  one — anywhere — and — like 
her  better  than  me — you  will  kill  me  :  remember  that." 

"  Now,  where,"  argues  he,  in  perfect  sincerity,  "  could 
I  meet  any  one  to  be  compared  with  you  ?  " 

"  But  how  shall  I  know  it — not  hearing  from  you  for  so 
many  months  ?  "  She  says  this  as  though  he,  not  she,  had 
forbidden  the  correspondence. 

"  Then  why  not  take  something  from  those  wretched  six 
months  ?  "  he  says,  craftily. 

"  I  don't  know.  Yes," — doubtfully, — "  it  is  too  long  a 
time.  In  four  months,  then,  I  shall  write, — yes,  in  four 
months.  Now  I  do  not  feel  quite  so  bad.  Sixteen  weeks 
will  not  be  so  long  going  by." 

"  One  would  be  shorter  still." 

"No,  no."  Smiling.  "Would  you  have  me  break 
through  all  my  resolution  ?  Be  faithful  to  me,  Teddy,  and 
I  will  be  faithful  to  you.  Here," — lifting  her  hands  to  her 
neck, — "  I  am  not  half  satisfied  with  that  stupid  lock  of 
hair  :  it  may  fall  out,  or  you  may  lose  it  some  way.  Take 
this  little  chain  " — loosening  it  from  round  her  throat  and 
giving  it  to  him — "  and  wear  it  next  your  heart  until  we 
meet  again, — if  indeed  " — sighing — "  we  ever  do  meet  again. 
Does  not  all  this  sound  like  the  sentiment  of  a  hundred 
years  ago  ?  But  do  not  laugh  at  me  :  I  mean  it." 

"  I  will  do  as  you  bid  me,"  replies  he,  kissing  the  slen- 
der chain  as  though  it  were  some  sacred  relic, — and  as  such, 
indeed,  he  regards  it, — while  ready  tears  spring  to  his  eyea. 
"  It  and  I  shall  never  part. " 

"  Well,  good-bye  really  now,"  she  says,  with  quivering 


32S  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

lips.  "  I  feel  more  cheerful,  more  hopeful.  I  don't  feel 
as  if — I  were  going  to  cry — another  tear."  With  this  she 
breaks  into  a  perfect  storm  of  tears,  and  tearing  herself 
from  his  embrace,  runs  away  from  hiro  down  the  avenue 
out  of  sight  of  his  longing  eyes. 


CHAPTEK    XXXII. 

"  Why,  look  you,  how  you  storm ! 
I  would  oe  friends  with  you,  and  have  your  love." 

— Merchant  of  Venice. 

"She  is  indeed  perfection." — Othello. 

THE  fourth  day  before  that  fixed  upon  for  leaving  Brook- 
lyn, Molly,  coming  down  to  breakfast,  finds  upon  her  plate 
a  large  envelope  directed  in  her  grandfather's  own  writing, 
— a  rather  shaky  writing  now,  it  is  true,  but  with  all  the 
remains  of  what  must  once  have  been  bold  and  determined 
calligraphy. 

"  Who  can  it  be  from  ?  "  says  Molly,  regarding  the  elab- 
orate seal  and  crest  with  amazement, — both  so  scarlet,  both 
so  huge. 

' '  Open  it,  dear,  and  you  will  see,"  replies  Letitia,  who  is 
merely  curious,  and  would  not  be  accused  of  triteness  for 
the  world. 

Breaking  the  alarming  seal,  Molly  reads  in  silence ; 
while  Letitia,  unable  to  bear  suspense,  rises  and  reads  it 
also  over  her  sister's  shoulder. 

It  consists  of  a  very  few  lines,  and  merely  expresses  a 
desire — that  is  plainly  a  command — that  Molly  will  come 
the  following  day  to  Herst,  as  her  grandfather  has  some- 
thingof  importance  to  say  to  her. 

"What  can  it  be?"  says  Molly,  glancing  over  her 
shoulder  at  Mrs.  Massereene,  who  has  taken  the  letter  to 
re-read  it. 

"Something  good,  perhaps."  Wistfully.  "There  may 
be  some  luck  in  store  for  you." 

"  Hardly.  I  have  ceased  to  believe  in  my  own  good  luck/' 
says  Molly,  bitterly.  "At  all  events,  I  suppose  I  had  bettef 
go.  Afterward  I  might  reproach  myself  for  having  been 
inattentive  to  his  wishes." 


MOLL  Y  £A  WX.  3g| 

"  Go,  by  all  means/*  says  Letitia  ;  and  so  it  is  arranger] 

Feeling  tired  and  nervous,  she  arrives  the  next  day  at 
Herst,  and  is  met  in  the  hall  by  her  friend  the  housekeeper 
iii  subdued  spirits  and  the  unfailing  silk  gown,  who  rcceivea 
her  in  a  good  old  motherly  fashion  and  bestows  upon  her  a 
warm  though  deferential  kiss. 

"  You  have  come,  my  dear,  and  I  am  glad  of  it,"  she 
says  in  a  mysterious  tone.  "  He  has  been  asking  for  you 
incessant.  Miss  Amherst,  she  is  away  from  home."  This 
in  a  pleased,  confidential  tone,  Miss  Amherst  being  dis- 
tinctly unpopular  among  the  domestics,  small  and  great. 
"  Mr.  Amherst  he  sent  her  to  the  Latouches'  for  a  week, — 
against  her  will,  I  must  say.  And  the  captain,  he  has  gone 
abroad." 

"Has  he?"     Surprised. 

<e  Yes,  quite  suddent  like,  and  no  one  the  wiser  why. 
When  last  he  come  home,  after  being  away  a  whole  day, 
he  beemed  to  me  daft  like, — quite,"  says  Mrs.  Nesbitt,  rais- 
ing her  eyes  and  hands,  whose  cozy  plumpness  almost  con- 
ceals the  well-worn  ring  that  for  twenty  years  of  widowhood 
has  rested  there  alone,  "quite  as  though  he  had  took  leave 
of  his  senses." 

"Yes?"  says  Molly,  in  a  faltering  tone,  feeling  de- 
cidedly guilty. 

"Ah,  indeed,  Miss  Massereene,  and  so  'twas.  But  you 
are  tired,  my  dear,  no  doubt,  and  a'most  faint  for  a  glass 
of  wine.  Come  and  take  off  your  things  and  rest  yourself 
a  bit,  while  I  tell  Mr.  Amherst  of  your  arrival." 

In  half  an  hour,  refreshed  and  feeling  somewhat  bolder, 
Molly  descends,  and,  gaining  the  library  door,  where  her 
grandfather  awaits  her,  she  opens  it  and  enters. 

As,  pale,  slender,  black-robed,  she  advances  to  his  side, 
Mr.  Amherst  looks  up. 

"  You  have  come,"  he  says,  holding  out  his  hand  to  her, 
but  not  rising.  There  is  a  most  unusual  nervousness  and 
hesitancy  about  his  manner. 

"  Yes.  You  wrote  for  me,  and  I  came,"  she  answers 
simply,  stooping,  as  in  duty  bound,  to  press  her  lips  to  his 
cheek. 

"Are  you  well  ?"  he  asks,  scrutinizingly,  struck  by  the 
difference  in  her  appearance  since  last  he  saw  her. 

"Yes,  thank  you,  quite  well." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  in  such  trouble."  There  is  a 
callousness  about  the  way  in  which  these  words  are  uttered 


330  MOLLY  BAWtf. 

that  jars  upon  Molly.  She  remembers  on  the  instant  aH 
his  narrow  spleen  toward  the  one  now  gone. 

"I  am, — in  sore  trouble,"  she  answers,  coldly. 

A  pause.  Mr.  Amherst,  although  apparently  full  £*£ 
purpose,  clearly  finds  some  difficulty  about  proceeding. 
Molly  is  waiting  in  impatient  silence. 

' '  You  wished  to  speak  to  me,  grandpapa  ? "  she  says, 
at  length. 

"  Yes, — yes.  Only  three  days  ago  I  heard  you  had  been 
left — badly  provided  for.  Is  this  so  ?  " 

"Itis.'y 

"And  that" — speaking  slowly — "you  had  made  up 
your  mind  to  earn  your  own  living.  Have  I  still  heard 
correctly  ?  " 

"Quite  correctly.  Mr.  Buscarlet  would  be  sure  to  give 
you  a  true  version  of  the  case." 

"The  news  has  upset  me."  For  the  first  time  he  turns 
his  head  and  regards  her  with  a  steady  gaze.  "  I  particu- 
larly object  to  your  doing  anything  of  the  kind.  It  would 
be  a  disgrace,  a  blot  upon  our  name  forever.  None  of  our 
family  has  ever  been  forced  to  work  for  daily  bread.  And 
I  would  have  you  remember  you  are  an  Amherst." 

"  Pardon  me,  I  am  a  Massereene." 

"  You  are  an  Amherst."  With  some  excitement  and 
considerable  irritation.  "  Your  mother  must  count  in 
some  way,  and  you — you  bear  a  strong  resemblance  to 
every  second  portrait  of  our  ancestors  in  the  gallery  up- 
stairs. I  wrote,  therefore,  to  bring  you  here  that  I  might 
personally  desire  you  to  give  up  your  scheme  of  self-sup- 
port and  come  to  live  at  Herst  as  its  mistress." 

"  '  Its  mistress ' ! "  repeats  Molly,  in  utter  amazement. 
"  And  how  about  Marcia  ?  " 

"  She  shall  be  amply  portioned, — if  you  consent  to  my 
proposal. " 

She  is  quite  silent  for  a  moment  or  two,  pondering 
slowly ;  then,  in  a  low,  curious  tone,  she  says  : 

"  And  what  is  to  become  of  my  sister  ?  " 

"  Your  step-sister-in-law,  you  mean."  Contemptuously. 
"  I  dare  say  she  will  manage  to  live  without  your  assist- 
ance. " 

Molly's  blue  eyes  here  show  signs  of  coming  fight ;  so 
do  her  hands.  Although  they  hang  open  and  motionless 
at  her  sides,  there  is  a  certain  tension  about  the  fingers 
that  in  a  quick,  warm  temperament  betokens  passion. 


MOLLY  SAWN. 

"  And  my  dead  brother's  children  ?  " 

"  They  too  can  lire,  no  doubt.  They  are  no  whit  worso 
off  than  if  you  had  never  been  among  them." 

"  But  I  have  been  among  them,"  cries  she,  with  sudden 
uncontrollable  anger  that  can  no  longer  be  suppressed. 
"  For  all  the  years  of  my  life  they  have  been  my  only 
friends.  When  I  was  thrown  upon  the  world  without 
father  or  mother,  my  brother  took  me  and  gave  me  a 
father's  care.  I  was  left  to  him  a  baby,  and  he  gave  me  a 
mother's  love.  He  fed  me,  clothed  me,  guarded  me,  edu- 
cated me,  did  all  that  man  could  do  for  me  ;  and  now  shall 
I  desert  those  dear  to  him  ?  They  are  his  children,  there- 
fore mine.  As  long  as  I  can  remember,  he  was  my  true 
and  loving  friend,  while  you — you — what  are  you  to  me? 
A  stranger — a  mere " 

She  stops  abruptly,  fearing  to  give  her  passion  further 
scope,  and,  casting  her  eyes  upon  the  ground,  folds  one 
hand  tightly  over  the  other. 

"  You  are  talking  sentimental  folly,"  replies  he,  coolly. 
•'Listen.  You  shall  hear  the  truth.  I  ill-treated  your 
mother,  as  you  know.  I  flung  her  off.  I  refused  her 
prayer  for  help,  although  I  knew  that  for  months  before 
your  birth  she  was  enduring  absolute  want.  Your  father 
was  in  embarrassed  circumstances  at  that  time.  Now  I 
would  make  reparation  to  her,  through  her  child.  I  tell 
you" — vindictively — "if  you  will  consent  to  give  up  the 
family  of  the  man  who  stole  my  Eleanor  from  me  I  will 
make  you  my  heiress.  All  the  property  is  unentailed. 
You  shall  have  Herst  and  twenty  thousand  pounds  a  year 
at  my  death." 

"  Oh  !  hush,  hush  ! " 

"  Think  it  over,  girl.  Give  it  your  fullest  consideration. 
Twenty  thousand  pounds  a  year  I  It  will  not  fall  to  your 
lot  every  day." 

"  You  strangely  forget  yourself,"  says  Molly,  with  chill- 
ing hauteur,  drawing  herself  up  to  her  full  height.  "  Has 
all  your  vaunted  Amherst  blood  failed  to  teach  you  what 
honor  means  ?  You  bribe  me  with  your  gold  to  sell  my- 
self, my  better  feelings,  all  that  is  good  in  me  !  Oh, 
ahame  !  Although  I  am  but  a  Massereene,  and  poor,  I 
would  scorn  to  offer  any  one  money  to  forego  their  prin- 
ciples and  betray  those  who  loved  and  trusted  in  them  I* 

"  You  refuse  me  ?  "  asks  he,  in  tones  that  tremble  with 
rage  and  disappointment. 


332  MOLL  Y  BA  VTN. 

"I  do." 

"Then  go,"  cries  he,  pointing  to  the  door  with  uplifted 
fingers  that  shake  perceptibly.  "  Leave  me,  and  never 
darken  my  doors  again.  Go,  earn  your  bread.  Starve  for 
those  beggarly  brats.  Work  until  your  young  blood  turns 
to  gall  and  all  the  youth  and  freshness  of  your  life  has 
gone  from  you." 

"  I  hope  I  shall  manage  to  live  without  all  you  predict 
«oming  to  pass,"  the  girl  replies,  faintly  though  bravely, 
her  face  as  white  as  death.  Is  it  a  curse  he  is  calling  down 
npon  her  ? 

"  May  I  ask  how  you  intend  doing  so  ?  "  goes  on  this 
terrible  old  man.  "  Few  honest  paths  lie  open  to  a  woman. 
You  have  not  yet  counted  the  cost  of  your  refusal.  Is  the 
tage  to  be  the  scene  of  your  future  triumphs  ?  " 

She  thinks  of  Luttrell,  and  of  how  differently  he  had  put 
Jie  very  same  question.  Oh,  that  she  had  him  near  her  now 
to  comfort  and  support  her  !  She  is  cold  and  trembling. 

"You  must  pardon  me,"  she  says,  with  dignity,  "if  1 
refuse  to  tell  you  any  of  my  plans."' 

"  You  are  right  in  refusing.  It  is  no  business  of  mine. 
From  henceforth  I  have  no  interest  whatsoever  in  you  or 
jK>ur  affairs.  Go, — go.  Why  do  you  linger,  bandying  words 
with  me,  when  I  bid  you  begone  ?  " 

In  a  very  frenzy  of  mortification  and  anger  he  turns  his 
back  upon  her,  and  sinking  down  into  the  chair  from  which 
In  his  rage  he  has  arisen,  he  lets  his  head  fall  forward  into 
his  hands. 

A  great  and  sudden  sadness  falls  on  Molly.  She  forgets 
all  the  cruel  words  that  have  been  said,  while  a  terrible  com- 
passion for  the  loneliness,  the  utter  barrenness  of  his  drear 
old  age,  grows  within  her. 

Crossing  the  room  with  light  and  noiseless  footsteps, 
treading  as  though  in  the  presence  of  one  sick  unto  death, 
she  comes  up  to  him,  lays  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders, 
and  stooping,  presses  her  fresh  young  lips  to  his  worn  and 
wrinkled  forehead. 

"  Good-bye,  grandpapa,"  she  says,  softly,  kindly.  Then, 
silently,  and  without  another  farewell,  she  leaves  him — for- 
ever. 


She  hardly  remembers  how  she  makes  the  return  jour- 
ney ;  how  she  took  her  ticket  ;.  how  cavalierly  she  received 


JfOLL  Y  SA  WN.  333 

the  attentions  of  the  exceedingly  nice  young  man  with  flaxen 
hair  suggestive  of  champagne  who  would  tuck  his  railway 
rug  around  her,  heroically  unmindful  of  the  cold  that  pene- 
trated his  own  bones.  Such  trifling  details  escaped  her 
then  and  afterward,  leaving  not  so  much  as  the  smallest 
track  upon  her  memory.  Yet  that  yellow-haired  young 
man  dreamt  of  her  for  a  week  afterward,  and  would  not  be 
comforted,  although  all  that  could  be  done  by  a  managing/ 
mother  with  two  marriageable  daughters  was  done  to  please 
him  and  bring  him  to  see  the  error  of  his  ways. 

All  the  way  home  she  ponders  anxiously  as  to  whether 
she  shall  or  shall  not  reveal  to  Letitia  all  that  has  taken 
place.  To  tell  her  will  be  beyond  doubt  to  grieve  her  ;  yet 
not  to  tell  her, — how  impossible  that  will  be  !  The  very 
intensity  of  her  indignation  and  scorn  creates  in  her  an  im- 
perative desire  to  open  her  heart  to  somebody.  And  who 
so  sympathetic  as  Letitia  ?  And,  after  all,  even  if  she  hides 
it  now,  will  not  Letitia  discover  the  truth  sooner  or  later  ? 
Still 

She  has  not  yet  decided  on  her  line  of  action  whec 
Brooklyn  is  reached.  She  is  still  wavering,  even  when 
Letitia,  drawing  her  into  the  parlor,  closes  the  door,  and, 
having  kissed  her,  very  naturally  says,  "  Well  ?  " 

And  Molly  says  "  Well "  also,  but  in  a  different  tone ; 
and  then  she  turns  pale,  and  then  red, — and  then  she  makes 
up  her  mind  to  tell  the  whole  story. 

"What  did  he  want  with  you  ? "  asks  Letitia,  while  she 
is  still  wondering  how  she  shall  begin. 

"Very  little.  Bitterly.  "A  mere  trifle.  He  only 
wanted  to  buy  me.  He  asked  me  to  sell  myself  body  and 
soul  to  him, — putting  me  at  a  high  valuation,  too,  for  he 
offered  me  Herst  in  exchange  if  I  would  renounce  you  and 
the  children. " 

"Molly  I" 

"Yes.  Just  that.  Oh,  Letty  !  only  a  month  ago  I 
thought  how  sweet  and  fair  and  good  a  thing  was  !ife,  and 
now_aud  now — that  old  man,  tottering  into  his  grave,  has 
taught  me  the  vileness  of  it." 

"  He  offered  you  Herst  ?  He  offered  you  twenty  thou- 
sand pounds  a  year  ?  " 

"  He  did,  indeed.  Was  it  not  noble?  Does  it  not  show 
how  highly  he  esteems  me  ?  I  was  to  be  sole  mistress  of 
the  place  ;"  and  Marcia  was  to  be  portioned  off  and— I  saw 
by  his  eyes — banished." 


834  MOLL  y  £4  WN. 

'*  And  you — refused  f  " 

"  Letty  !  How  can  you  ask  me  such  a  question  ?  Be- 
sides  refusing,  I  had  the  small  satisfaction  of  telling  him 
exactly  what  I  thought  of  him  and  his  proposal.  I  do  not 
think  he  will  make  such  overtures  to  me  again.  Are  you 
disappointed,  Letty,  that  you  look  so  strangely  ?  Did  you 
think,  dear,  I  should  bring  you  home  some  good  news,  in- 
stead of  this  disgraceful  story  ?  " 

"  No."  In  a  low  tone,  and  with  a  gesture  of  impatience. 
"  I  am  not  thinking  of  myself.  Last  week,  Molly,  you 
relinquished  your  love — for  us ;  to-day  you  have  resigned 
fortune.  Will  you  never  repent  ?  In  the  days  to  come, 
how  will  you  forgive  us  ?  Before  it  is  too  late,  think  it 
over  and " 

"  Letitia,"  says  Molly,  laying  her  hand  upon  her  sister's 
fips,  "  if  you  ever  speak  to  me  like  that  again  I  shall — kill 
you." 


CHAPTER  XXXITL 

"  Mute  and  amazed  was  Alden ;  and  listen'd  and  look'd  at  Priscilla, 
Thinking  he  never  had  seen  her  more  fair,    more  divine  in  her 
beauty."  — LONGFELLOW. 

IT  is  the  2d  of  March — four  months  later  (barely  four 
months,  for  some  days  must  still  elapse  before  that  time  is 
fully  up) — and  a  raw  evening, — very  raw,  and  cold  even  for 
the  time  of  year, — when  the  train,  stopping  at  the  Victoria 
Station,  suffers  a  young  man  to  alight  from  it. 

He  is  a  tall  young  man,  slight  and  upright,  clad  in  one 
of  the  comfortable  long  coats  of  the  period,  with  an  aristo- 
cratic face  and  sweet,  keen  blue  eyes.  His  moustache,  fair 
and  lengthy,  is  drooping  sadly  through  dampness  and  the 
general  inclemency  of  the  weather. 

Pushing  his  way  through  the  other  passengers,  with  a 
discontented  expression  upon  his  genial  face  that  rather 
misbecomes  it,  he  emerges  into  the  open  air,  to  find  that 
a  smart  drizzle,  unworthy  the  name  of  rain,  is  falling  in- 
hospitably upon  him. 

There  is  a  fog, — not  as  thick  as  it  might  be,  but  a 
decided  fog, — and  everything  is  gloomy  to  the  last  degree. 

Stumbling  up  against  another  tall  young  man,  dressed 
almost  to  a  tie  the  same  a*  himself,  he  smothers  the  uncivil 


MOLLY  BAWN.  335 

ejaculation  that  rises  BO  naturally  to  his  lips,  and  after  a 
second  glance  changes  it  to  one  of  greeting. 

"Ah,  Penning,  is  it  you?"  he  says.  "This  beastly 
fog  prevented  my  recognizing  you  at  first.  How  are  you  ? 
It  is  ages  since  last  we  met." 

"  Is  it  indeed  you,  Luttrell  ?  "  says  the  new-comer,  stop- 
ping short  and  altering  his  sour  look  to  one  of  pleased 
astonishment.  "  You  in  the  flesh?  Let  us  look  at  you  ?" 
Drawing  Luttrell  into  the  neighborhood  of  an  unhappy 
lamp  that  tries  against  its  conscience  to  think  it  is  showing 
light  and  grows  every  minute  fainter  and  more  depressed 
in  its  struggle  against  truth.  "  All  the  way  from  Paddy- 
land,  where  he  has  spent  four  long  months,"  says  Mr. 
Fenning,  "  and  he  is  still  alive  !  It  is  inconceivable.  Let 
me  examine  you.  Sound,  I  protest, — sound  in  wind  and 
limb  ;  not  a  defacing  mark  !  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it 
if  I  hadn't  seen  it.  I  am  awful  glad  to  see  you,  old  boy. 
What  are  you  going  to  do  with  yourself  this  evening  ?  " 

"  I  wish  I  knew.  I  am  absolutely  thrown  upon  the 
world.  You  will  take  me  somewhere  with  you,  if  you  have 
any  charity  about  you." 

"  Fm  engaged  for  this  evening."  With  a  groan.  "  Ain't 
I  unlucky  ?  Hang  it  all,  something  told  me  to  refuse  old 
Wiggins's  emblazoned  card,  but  I  wouldn't  be  warned. 
Now,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  You  can  at  least  advise  me  how  best  to  kill  time  to- 
night." 

"The  Alhambra  has  a  good  thing  on,"  says  young  Fen- 
ning, brightening;  "and  the  Argyll " 

"  I'm  used  up,  morally  and  physically,"  interrupts  Lut- 
trell, rather  impatiently.  "Suggest  something  calmer — 
musical,  or  that." 

"  Oh,  musical  !  That  is  mild.  I  have  been  educated  in 
the  belief  that  a  sojourn  in  Ireland  renders  one  savage  for 
the  remainder  of  his  days.  I  blush  for  my  ignorance.  If 
it  is  first-class  music  you  want,  go  to  hear  Wynter  sing. 
She  does  sing  this  evening,  happily  for  you,  and  anything 
m^re  delicious,  both  in  face  and  voice,  has  not  aroused 
London  to  madness  for  a  considerable  time.  Go,  hear  her, 
but  leave  your  heart  at  your  hotel  before  going.  The 
Grosvenor,  is  it,  or  the  Langham  ?  The  Langham.  Ah,  I 
shall  call  to-morrow.  By-bye,  old  man.  Go  and  see 
Wynter,  and  you  will  be  richly  rewarded.  She  is  tre- 
mendously lovely." 


336  JfOLL  Y  JBA  WN. 

"  I  will,"  says  Luttrell ;  and  having  dined  and  dr«ss«d 
himself,  he  goes  and  does  it. 

Feeling  listless,  and  not  in  the  slightest  degree  inter- 
ested in  the  coming  performance,  he  enters  the  concert 
room,  to  find  himself  decidedly  late.  Some  one  has  evi- 
dently just  finished  singing,  and  the  applause  that  followed 
the  effort  has  not  yet  quite  died  away. 

With  all  the  air  of  a  man  who  wonders  vaguely  within 
himself  what  in  the  world  has  brought  him  here,  Luttr«ll 
makes  his  Avay  to  a  vacant  chair  and  seats  himself  beside 
an  elderly,  pleasant-faced  man,  too  darkly-skinned  and  too 
bright-eyed  to  belong  to  this  country. 

"You  are  late, — late,"  says  this  stranger,  in  perfect 
English,  and,  with  all  the  geniality  of  most  foreigners, 
making  room  for  him.  "  She  has  just  sung." 

"  Has  she  ?  "    Faintly  amused.     "  Who  ?  " 

"Miss — Wynter.     Ah  !  you  have  sustained  a  loss." 

"I  am  unlucky,"  says  Luttrell,  feeling  some  slight  dis- 
appointment,— very  slight.  Good  singers  can  be  heard 
again.  "I  came  expressly  to  hear  her.  I  have  been  told 
she  sings  well." 

"  Well — well !  "  Disdainfully.  "  Your  informant  was 
careful  not  to  overstep  the  truth.  It  is  marvelous — ex- 
quisite— her  voice,"  says  the  Italian,  with  such  uurepressed 
enthusiasm  as  makes  Luttrell  smile.  "  These  antediluvian 
attachments,"  thinks  he,  "are  always  severe." 

"You  make  me  more  regretful  every  minute,"  he  says, 
politely.  "  I  feel  as  though  I  had  lost  something." 

"  So  you  have.  But  be  consoled.  She  will  sing  again 
later  on." 

Leaning  back,  Luttrell  takes  a  survey  of  the  room.  It 
is  crowded  to  excess,  and  brilliant  as  lights  and  gay  apparel 
can  make  it.  Fans  are  flashing,  so  are  jewels,  so  are  gems 
of  greater  value  still, — black  eyes,  blue  and  gray.  Pretty 
dresses  are  melting  into  other  pretty  dresses,  and  there  is 
a  great  deal  of  beauty  everywhere  for  those  who  choose  to 
look  for  it. 

After  a  while  his  gaze,  slowly  traveling,  falls  on  Cecil 
Stafford.  She  is  showing  even  more  than  usually  bonny 
and  winsome  in  some  chef-d'oeuvre  of  Worth's,  and  is  mak- 
ing herself  very  agreeable  to  a  tall,  lanky,  eighteenth  cen- 
tury sort  of  man  who  sits  beside  her,  and  is  kindly  allowing 
himself  to  be  amused. 

An  intense  desire  to  go  to  her  and  put  the  fifty  questions 


MOLLY  tiAWtf.  '  33? 

that  in  an  instant  rise  to  his  lips  seizes  Luttrell  ;  but  she 
ia  unhappily  so  situated  that  he  cannot  get  at  her.  Un- 
less he  were  to  summon  np  fortitude  to  crush  past  three 
grim  dowagers,  two  elaborately-attired  girls,  and  one  sour 
old  spinster,  it  cannot  be  done ;  and  Tedcastle,  at  least, 
has  not  the  sort  of  pluck  necessary  to  carry  him  through 
with  it. 

Cecil,  seeing  him,  starts  and  colors,  and  then  nods  and 
smiles  gayly  at  him  in  pleased  surprise.  A  moment  after- 
ward her  expression  changes,  and  something  so  like  dis- 
may as  to  cause  Luttrell  astonishment  covers  her  face. 

Then  the  business  of  the  evening  proceeds,  and  she  turns 
her  attention  to  the  singers,  and  he  has  no  more  time  to 
wonder  at  her  sudden  change  of  countenance. 

A  very  small  young  lady,  hidden  away  in  countless  yards 
of  pink  silk,  delights  them  with  one  of  the  ballads  of  the 
day.  Her  voice  is  far  the  biggest  part  of  her,  and  awakens 
in  one's  mind  a  curious  craving  to  know  where  it  comes 
from. 

Then  a  wonderfully  ugly  man,  with  a  delightful  face, 
plays  on  the  violin  something  that  reminds  one  of  all  the 
sweetest  birds  that  sing,  and  is  sufficiently  ravishing  to 
call  forth  at  intervals  the  exclamation,  ''Good,  good!" 
from  Luttrell's  neighbor. 

Then  a  very  large  woman  warbles  a  French  chansonnette 
in  the  tiniest,  most  flute-like  of  voices  ;  and  then 

Who  is  it  that  comes  with  such  grave  and  simple  dig- 
nity across  the  boards,  with  her  small  head  proudly  but 
gracefully  upheld,  her  large  eyes  calm  and  sweet  and 
steady  ? 

For  a  moment  Luttrell  disbelieves  his  senses.  Then  a 
mist  rises  before  him,  a  choking  sensation  comes  into  his 
throat.  Laying  his  hand  upon  the  back  of  the  chair 
nearest  him,  he  fortunately  manages  to  retain  his  com- 
posure, while  heart,  and  mind,  and  eyes,  are  centred  on 
Molly  Bawn. 

An  instantaneous  hush  falls  upon  the  assembly  ;  the  very 
fans  drop  silently  into  their  owners'  laps  ;  not  a  whisper 
ean  be  heard.  The  opening  chords  are  played  by  some 
one,  and  then  Molly  begins  to  sing. 

It  is  some  new,  exquisite  rendering  of  Kingsley's  ex- 
quisite words  she  has  chosen  : 

"  Oh,  that  we  two  were  maying  I — " 


338  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

and  she  sings  it  with  all  the  pathos,  the  genius,  of  which 
siie  is  capable. 

She  has  no  thought  for  all  the  gay  crowd  that  stays  en- 
tranced upon  her  tones.  She  looks  far  above  them,  her 
serene  face — pale,  but  full  of  gentle  self-possession — more 
sweet  than  any  poem.  She  is  singing  with  all  her  heart 
for  her  beloved, — for  Letitia,  and  Lovat,  and  the  children, 
and  John  in  heaven. 

A  passionate  longing  to  be  near  her — to  touch  her — to 
speak — to  be  answered  back  again — seizes  Luttrell.  He 
takes  in  hungrily  all  the  minutiae  of  her  clothing,  her  man- 
ner, her  expression.  He  sees  the  soft,  gleaming  bunches 
of  snow-drops  at  her  bosom  and  in  her  hair.  Her  hands, 
lightly  crossed  before  her,  are  innocent  of  rings.  Her 
simple  black  gown  of  some  clinging,  transparent  material 
— barely  opened  at  the  neck — makes  even  more  fair  the 
milk-white  of  her  throat  (that  is  scarcely  less  white  than 
the  snowy  flowers). 

Her  hair  is  drawn  back  into  its  old  loose  knot  behind, 
in  the  simple  style  that  suits  her.  She  has  a  tiny  band  of 
black  velvet  round  her  neck.  How  fair  she  is, — how  sweet, 
yet  full  of  a  tender  melancholy  !  He  is  glad  in  his  heart 
for  that  little  pensive  shade,  and  thinks,  though  more 
fragile,  she  never  looked  so  lovely  in  her  life. 

She  has  commenced  the  last  verse  : 

"  Oh,  that  we  two  lay  sleeping 

In  our  nest  in  the  church-yard  sod, 

With  our  limbs  at  rest 

On  the  quiet  earth's  breast, 
And  our  souls  at  home  with  God! " 

She  is  almost  safely  through  it.  There  is  such  a  deadly 
silence  as  ever  presages  a  storm,  when  by  some  luckless 
chance  her  eyes,  that  seldom  wander,  fall  full  on  Luttrell's 
upturned,  agitated  face. 

His  fascinated,  burning  gaze  compels  her  to  return  it. 
Oh,  that  hfi  should  see  her  here,  singing  before  all  these 
people  !  iFor  the  first  time  a  terrible  sense  of  shame  over- 
powers her  ;  a  longing  to  escape  the  eyes  that  from  all  parts 
of  the  hall  appear  to  stare  at  ner  and  criticise  her  voice — 
herself ! 

She  turns  a  little  faint,  wavers  slightly,  and  then  breaks 
down. 

Covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  with  a  gesture  of 


MOLLY  BAWM.  330 

passion  and  regret,  she  falls  hurriedly  into  the  background 
and  is  gone. 

Immediately  kindly  applause  bursts  forth.  What  has 
happened  to  the  favorite  ?  Is  she  ill,  or  faint,  or  has  some 
lost  dead  chord  of  her  life  suddenly  sounded  again  ?  Every 
one  is  at  a  loss,  and  every  one  is  curious.  It  is  interesting, 
— perhaps  the  most  interesting  part  of  the  whole  perform- 
ance,— and  to-morrow  will  tell  them  all  about  it. 

Tedcastle  starts  to  his  feet,  half  mad  with  agitation,  his 
face  ashen  white.  There  is  no  knowing  what  he  might  not 
have  done  in  this  moment  of  excitement  had  not  his  foreign 
neighbor,  laying  hands  upon  him,  gently  forced  him  back 
again  into  his  seat. 

"  My  friend,  consider  her,"  he  whispers,  in  a  firm  but 
soft  voice.  Then,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  Come  with 
me,"  he  says,  and,  leading  the  way,  beckons  to  Luttrell, 
who  rises  mechanically  and  follows  him. 

Into  a  small  private  apartment  that  opens  off  the  hall 
the  Italian  takes  him,  and,  pushing  toward  him  a  chair, 
•sinks  into  another  himself. 

"  She  is  the  woman  you  love  ?"  he  asks,  presently,  in 
such  a  kindly  tone  as  carries  away  all  suspicion  of  imper- 
tinence. 

"  Yes/7  answers  Luttrell,  simply. 

"Well,  and  I  love  her  too, — as  a  pupil, — a  beloved 
pupil/'  says  the  elder  man,  with  a  smile,  removing  his 
spectacles.  "My  name  is  Marigny/' 

Tedcastle  bows  involuntarily  to  the  great  teacher  and 
master  of  music. 

"How  often  she  has  spoken  of  you  !"  he  says  warmly, 
feeling  already  a  friendship  for  this  gentle  preceptor. 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  mine  was  the  happiness  to  give  to  the  world 
this  glorious  voice,"  he  says,  enthusiastically.  "  And  what 
a  gift  it  is!  Bare,— wonderful.  But  you,  sir,— you  are 
engaged  to  her  ?  " 

"We  were—we  are  engaged/'  says  Luttrell,  his  eyes 
dark  with  emotion.  "  But  it  is  months  since  we  have  met. 
I  came  to  London  to  seek  her;  but  did  not  dream  that  here 

— here Misfortune  has  separated  us ;  but  if  I  lived  for 

a  hundred  years  I  should  never  cease — to 

He  stops,  and,  getting  up  abruptly,  paces  the  room  m 
silent  impatience. 

"  You  have  spoiled  her  son?/'  says  the  Italian,  regret- 
fully. "And  she  was  in  such  voice  to-night!  Hark; 


140  MOLL  y  BA  WN. 

Knising  his  hand  as  the  clapping  and  applause  still  reach 
Lim  through  the  door.  ' '  Hark  !  how  they  appreciate  even 
her  failures  ! " 

"Can  I  see  her?" 

"  I  doubt  it.  She  is  so  prudent.  She  will  speak  to  no 
one.  And  then  madame  her  sister  is  always  with  her.  I 
trust  you,  sir, — your  face  is  not  to  be  disbelieved ;  but  I 
cannot  give  you  her  address.  I  have  sworn  to  her  not  to 
reveal  it  to  any  one,  and  I  must  not  release  myself  from  my 
word  without  her  consent." 

"The  fates  are  against  me,"  says  Luttrell,  drearily. 

Then  he  bids  good-night  to  the  Signer,  and,  going  out 
into  the  night,  paces  up  and  down  in  a  fever  of  longing 
and  disappointment. 

At  length  the  concert  is  over,  and  every  one  is  depart- 
ing. Tedcastle,  making  his  way  to  the  private  entrance, 
watches  anxiously,  though  with  little  hope  for  what  may 
come. 

But  others  are  watching  also  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
admired  singer,  and  the  crowd  round  the  door  is  im- 
mense. 

Insensibly,  in  spite  of  his  efforts,  he  finds  himself  less 
near  the  entrance  than  when  first  he  took  up  his  stand 
there  ;  and  just  as  he  is  trying,  with  small  regard  to  cour- 
tesy, to  retrieve  his  position,  there  is  a  slight  murmur 
among  those  assembled,  and  a  second  later  some  one,  slen- 
der, black-robed,  emerges,  heavily  cloaked,  and  with  some 
light,  fleecy  thing  thrown  over  her  head,  so  as  even  to  con. 
ceal  her  face,  and  quickly  enters  the  cab  that  awaits  her. 

As  she  places  her  foot  upon  the  step  of  the  vehicle  a 
portion  of  the  white  woolen  shawl  that  hides  her  features 
falls  back,  and  for  one  instant  Luttrell  catches  sight  of  the 
pale,  beautiful  face  that,  waking  and  sleeping,  has  haunted 
him  all  these  past  months,  and  will  haunt  him  till  he  dies. 

She  is  followed  by  a  tall  woman,  with  a  full  posee  figure 
also  draped  in  black,  whom  even  at  that  distance  he  recog- 
nizes as  Mrs.  Massereene. 

He  makes  one  more  vigorous  effort  to  reach  them,  but 
too  late.  Almost  as  his  hand  touohes  the  cab  the  driver 
receives  his  orders,  whips  up  his  emaciated  charger,  and 
disappears  down  the  street. 

They  are  gone.  With  a  muttered  exclamation,  that 
savors  not  of  thanksgiving,  Luttrell  turns  aside,  and,  call- 
ing a  hansom,  drives  straight  to  Cecil  Stafford's. 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  34} 

Whether  Molly  slept  or  did  not  sleep  that  night  remains 
a  mystery.  The  following  morning  tells  no  tales.  There 
are  fresh,  faint  roses  in  her  cheeks,  a  brightness  in  her  eyes 
that  for  months  has  been  absent  from  them.  If  a  little 
quiet  and  preoccupied  in  manner,  she  is  gayer  and  happier 
in  voice  and  speech  once  her  attention  is  gained. 

Sitting  in  her  small  drawing-room,  with  her  whole  being 
in  a  very  tumult  of  expectation,  she  listens  feverishly  to 
every  knock. 

It  is  not  yet  quite  four  months  since  she  and  Luttrell 
parted.  The  prescribed  period  has  not  altogether  expired  ; 
and  during  their  separation  she  has  indeed  verified  her  own 
predictions, — she  has  proved  an  undeniable  success.  Under 
the  assumed  name  of  Wynter  she  has  sought  and  obtained 
the  universal  applause  of  the  London  world. 

She  has  also  kept  her  word.  Not  once  during  all  these 
trying  months  has  she  written  to  ker  lover  ;  only  once  has 
ehe  received  a  line  from  him. 

Last  Valentine's  morning  Cecil  Stafford,  dropping  in, 
brought  her  a  small  packet  closely  sealed  and  directed 
simply  to  "Molly  Bawn."  The  mere  writing  made  poor 
Molly's  heart  beat  and  her  pulses  throb  to  pain,  as  in  one 
second  it  recalled  to  mind  all  her  past  joys,  all  the  good 
days  she  had  dreamed  through,  unknowing  of  the  bitter 
wakening. 

Opening  the  little  packet,  she  found  inside  it  a  gold 
bracelet,  embracing  a  tiny  bunch  of  dead  forget-me-nots, 
with  this  inscription  folded  round  them  : 

"  There  shall  not  be  one  minute  in  an  hour 
Wherein  I  will  not  kiss  my  sweet  love's  flower." 

Except  this  one  token  of  remembrance,  she  has  had 
nothing  to  make  her  know  whether  indeed  she  still  lives  in 
his  memory  or  has  been  forgotten,— perhaps  superseded, 
until  last  night.  Then,  as  she  met  his  eyes,  that  told  a 
story  more  convincing  than  any  words,  and  marking  the 
passionate  delight  and  longing  on  his  face,  she  dared  to 
assure  herself  of  his  constancy. 

Now,  as  she  sits  restlessly  awaiting  what  time  may 
brino-  her.  she  thinks,  with  a  smile,  that,  sad  as  her  life 
maybe  and  is,  she  is  surely  blessed  as  few  are  in  a  posses- 
sion of  which  none  can  rob  her.  tne  tender,  faithful  affec- 
tion of  one  heart. 


3  43  MOLL  Y  'BA  WX. 

She  is  still  smiling,  and  breathing  a  little  glad  sigh  over 
this  thought,  when  the  door  opens  and  Lady  Stafford  comes 
in.  She  is  radiant,  a  very  sunbeam,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  Sir  Penthony  is  again  an  absentee  from  his  native  land, 
having  bidden  adieu  to  English  shores  three  months  ago  in 
a  fit  of  pique,  brought  on  by  Cecil's  perversity. 

Some  small  dissension,  some  trivial  disagreement,  anger 
on  his  part,  seeming  indifference  on  hers,  and  the  deed 
was  done.  He  left  her  indignant,  enraged,  but  probably 

more  in  love  with  her  than  ever  ;  while  she But  who 

shall  fathom  a  woman's  heart  ? 

"  You  saw  him  last  night  ? "  asks  Molly,  rising,  with  a 
brilliant  blush,  to  receive  her  visitor.  "  Cecil,  did  you 
know  he  was  coming?  You  might  have  told  me."  For 
her  there  is  but  one  "he." 

"  So  I  should,  my  dear,  directly ;  but  the  fact  is,  I  didn't 
know.  The  stupid  boy  never  wrote  me  a  line  on  the  sub- 
ject. It  appears  he  got  a  fortnight's  leave,  and  came  post- 
haste to  London  to  find  you.  Such  a  lover  as  he  makes 
And  where  should  he  go  by  the  merest  chance,  the  very 
first  evening,  but  into  your  actual  presence  ?  It  is  a  ro- 
mance," says  her  ladyship,  much  delighted;  "positively  it 
is  a  shame  to  let  it  sink  into  oblivion.  Some  one  should 
recommend  it  to  the  Laureate  as  a  theme  for  his  next  pro- 
duction." 

"Well?"  says  Molly,  who  at  this  moment  is  guilty  of 
irreverence  in  her  thoughts  toward  the  great  poet. 

"  Well,  now,  of  course  he  wants  to  know  when  he  may 
see  you." 

"  You  didn't  give  him  my  address  ?"  With  an  amount 
of  disappointment  in  her  tone  impossible  to  suppress. 

"  I  always  notice,"  says  Cecil,  in  despair,  "  that  when- 
ever (which  is  seldom)  I  do  the  right  thing  it  turns  out 
afterward  to  be  the  wrong  thing.  You  swore  me  in  to 
keep  your  secret  four  months  ago,  and  I  have  done  so 
religiously.  To-day,  sorely  against  my  will.  I  honestly  con- 
fess, I  still  remained  faithful  to  my  promise,  and  see  the 
result.  You  could  almost  beat  me, — don't  deny  it,  Molly  ; 
I  see  it  in  your  eyes.  If  we  were  both  South  Sea  Islanders 
I  should  be  black  and  blue  this  instant.  It  is  the  fear  of 
scandal  alone  restrains  yon." 

"You  were  quite  right."  Warmly.  "I  admire  you  for 
it ;  only " 

"  Yes,  just  so.     it  was  all  I  could  do  to  refuse  the  poor 


MOLL  Y  BA  WX.  343 

fellow,  he  pressed  me  so  hard ;  but  for  the  first  (and 
now  I  shall  make  it  the  last)  time  in  my  life,  I  was  firm. 
I'm  sure  I  wish  I  hadn't  been.  I  earned  both  your  dis- 
pleasure and  his." 

"Not  mine,  dearest." 

"Besides,  another  motive  for  my  determination  was 
this  :  both  he  and  I  doubted  if  you  would  receive  him  until 
the  four  months  were  verily  up, — you  are  such  a  Roman 
matron  in  the  way  of  sternness." 

"  My  sternness,  as  you  call  it,  is  a  thing  of  the  past. 
Yes,  I  will  see  him  whenever  he  may  choose  to  come. 

"  Which  will  be  in  about  two  hours  precisely ;  that  is, 
the  moment  he  sees  me  and  learns  his  fate.  I  told  him  to 
eall  again  about  one  o'clock,  when  I  supposed  I  should  kave 
news  for  him.  It  is  almost  that  now."  With  a  hasty 
glance  at  her  watch.  "I  must  fly.  But  first,  give  me 
a  line  for  him,  Molly,  to  convince  him  of  your  fallibil- 
ity." 

"Have  you  heard  anything  of  Sir  Penthony?"  asks 
Molly,  when  she  has  scribbled  a  tiny  note  and  given  it  to 
ier  friend. 

"  Yes ;  I  hear  he  either  is  in  London  or  was  yesterday, 
or  will  be  to-morrow, — I  am  not  clear  which."  With  af- 
fected indifference.  "I  told  you  he  was  sure  to  turn  up 
again  all  right,  like  a  bad  halfpenny  ;  so  I  was  not  uneasy 
about  him.  I  only  hope  he  will  reappear  in  better  temper 
than  when  he  left." 

"  Now,  confess  you  are  delighted  at  the  idea  of  so  soon 
seeing  him  again,  says  Molly,  laughing. 

"Well,  I'm  not  in  such  radiant  spirits  as  somebody  I 
could  mention."  Mischievously.  "  And  as  to  confessing, 
I  never  do  that.  I  should  make  a  bad  Catholic.  I  should 
be  in  perpetual  hot  water  with  my  spiritual  adviser.  But 
if  he  comes  back  penitent,  and  shows  himself  less  exigeant, 
I  shan't  refuse  his  overtures  of  peace.  Now,  don't  make 
me  keep  your  Teddy  waiting  any  longer.  He  is  shut  up 
in  my  boudoir  enduring  grinding  torments  all  this  time, 
and  without  a  companion  or  the  chance  of  one,  as  I  left 
word  that  I  should  be  at  home  to  no  one  but  him  this  morn- 
ing. Good-bye,  darling.  Give  my  love  to  Letitia  and  th« 
wee  scraps.  And — these  bonbons — I  had  almost  forgotten 
them." 

"  Oh,  by  the  bye,  did  you  hear  what  Daisy  said  the  othw 
day  apropos  of  your  china  ?  " 


344  MOLL  Y  BA  W*f. 

"No." 

"  When  we  had  left  your  house  and  walked  for  some 
time  in  a  silence  most  unusual  where  she  is,  she  said,  in  her 
small,  solemn  way,  '  Molly,  why  does  Lady  Stafford  have 
her  kitchen  in  her  drawing-room  ?'  Now,  was  it  not  a 
capital  bit  of  china-mania  ?  I  thought  it  very  severe  on 
the  times." 

"  It  was  cruel.  I  shall  instantly  send  my  plates  and 
jugs,  and  that  delicious  old  Worcester  tureen  down-stairs 
to  their  proper  place,"  says  Cecil,  laughing.  "There  ie 
no  criticism  so  cutting  as  a  child's. " 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

"Ask  me  no  more  ;  thy  fate  and  mine  are  sealed. 
I  strove  against  the  stream,  and  all  in  vain. 
Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  the  main. 
No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  I  yield  ; 
Ask  me  no  more." — The  Princess. 

ALMOST  as  Cecil  steps  into  her  carriage,  Sir  Penthony 
Stafford  is  standing  on  her  steps,  holding  sweet  converse 
with  her  footman  at  her  own  hall-door. 

"  Lady  Stafford  at  home  ?  "  asks  he  of  the  briUiant  but 
supercilious  personage  who  condescends  to  answer  to  his 
knock. 

"No,  sir."  Being  a  new  acquisition  of  Cecil's,  he  is 
blissfully  ignorant  of  Sir  Penthony's  name  and  status. 
"My  lady  is  hout." 

"  When  will  she  be  home  ?"  Feeling  a  good  deal  of  sur- 
prise at  her  early  wanderings,  and,  in  fact,  not  believing  a 
word  of  it. 

"  My  lady  won't  be  at  home  all  this  morning,  sir." 

"Then  I  shall  wait  till  the  afternoon,"  says  Sir  Pen- 
thony,  faintly  amused,  although  exasperated  at  what  ha 
has  decided  is  a  heinous  lie. 

"  Lady  Stafford  gave  strict  borders  that  no  one  was  to 
be  admitted  before  two,"  says  flunkey,  indignant  at  the 
stranger's  persistence,  who  has  come  into  the  hall  and  calmly 
divested  himself  of  his  overcoat. 

"  She  will  admit  me,  I  don't  doubt,"  says  Sir  Penthony, 
calmly.  "  I  am  Sir  Penthony  Stafford." 


MOLLY  BAWN.  §45 

"  Oh,  indeed  !  Sir  Penthony,  I  beg  your  pardon.  Of 
oourse,  Sir  Penthony,  if  you  wish  to  wait 

Here  Sir  Penthony,  wlio  has  slowly  been  mounting  th« 
stairs  all  this  time,  with  Chawles,  much  exercised  in  his 
mind,  at  his  heels — (for  Cecil's  commands  are  not  to  be 
disputed,  and  the  situation  is  a  good  one,  and  she  has  dis- 
tinctly declared  no  one  is  to  be  received)— Sir  Penthony 
pauses  on  the  landing  and  lays  his  hand  on  the  boudoir 
door. 

"Not  there,  Sir  Penthony,"  says  the  man,  interposing 
hurriedly,  and  throwing  open  the  drawing-room  door,  which 
is  next  to  it.  "  If  you  will  wait  here  I  don't  think  my  lady 
will  be  long,  as  she  said  she  should  be  'ome  at  one  to  keep 
an  appointment." 

"  That  will  do."  Sternly.  "  Go  !— I  dare  say,"  thinks 
Stafford,  angrily,  as  the  drawing-room  door  is  closed  on 
him,  "  if  I  make  a  point  of  it,  she  will  dismiss  that  fellow. 
Insolent  and  noisy  as  a  parrot.  A  well-bred  footman  never 
gets  beyond  '  Yes  '  or  '  No '  unless  required,  and  even  then 
only  under  heavy  pressure.  But  what  appointment  can 
she  have  ?  And  who  is  secreted  in  her  room  ?  Pshaw  ! 
Her  dressmaker,  no  doubt." 

But,  for  all  that,  he  can't  quite  reconcile  himself  to  the 
dressmaker  theory,  and,  but  that  honor  forbids,  would  have 
marched  straight,  without  any  warning,  into  "my  lady's 
chamber." 

Getting  inside  the  heavy  hanging  curtains,  he  employs 
his  time  watching  through  the  window  the  people  passing 
to  and  fro,  all  intent  upon  the  great  business  of  life, — the 
making  and  spending  of  money. 

After  a  little  while  a  carriage  stops  beneath  him,  and  he 
sees  Cecil  alight  from  it  and  go  with  eager  haste  up  the 
srteps.  He  hears  her  enter,  run  up  the  stairs,  pause  upon 
the  landing,  and  then,  going  into  the  boudoir,  close  the 
door  carefully  behind  her. 

He  stifles  an  angry  exclamation,  and  resolves,  with  all 
the  airs  of  a  Spartan,  to  be  calm.  Nevertheless,  he  is  not 
calm,  and  quite  doubles  the  amount  of  minutes  that  really 
elapse  before  the  drawing-room  door  is  thrown  open  and 
Cecil,  followed  by  Luttrell,  comes  in. 

"  Luttrell,  of  all  men ! "  thinks  Sir  Penthony,  as 
though  he  would  have  said,  "  Et  tu,  Brute  ?  "  forgetting 
to  come  forward, — forgetting  everything, — so  entirely  has 
ft  wild,  unreasoning  jealousy  mastered  him.  The  curtain* 


MOLLY  BAWN. 

effectually  conceal  him,  so  his  close  proximity  remains  « 
secret. 

Luttrell  is  evidently  in  high  spirits.  His  blue  ey©$  are 
bright,  his  whole  air  triumphant.  Altogether,  he  is  as 
unlike  the  moony  young  man  who  left  the  v  ictoria  Station 
last  evening  as  one  can  well  imagine. 

"  Oh,  Cecil !  what  should  I  do  without  you  ?  "  he  says, 
in  a  most  heartfelt  manner,  gazing  at  her  as  though  (thinks 
Sir  Penthony)  he  would  much  like  to  embrace  her  there 
and  then.  "  How  happy  you  have  made  me  !  And  just 
as  I  was  on  the  point  of  despairing  !  I  owe  you  all, — every* 
thing, — the  best  of  my  life." 

"I  am  glad  yon  rate  what  I  have  done  for  you  so  highly. 
But  you  know,  Tedcastle,  you  were  always  rather  a  favorite 
of  mine.  Have  you  forgiven  me  my  stony  refusal  of  last 
night  ?  I  would  have  spoken  willingly,  but  you  know  I 
was  forbidden." 

"  What  is  it  I  would  not  lorgive  you  ?  "  exclaims  Luttrell, 
gratefully. 

("Last  night;  and  again  this  morning:  probably  he 
will  dine  this  evening,"  thinks  Sir  Penthony,  who  by 
this  time  is  black  with  rage  and  cold  with  an  unnamed 
fear. ) 

Cecil  is  evidently  as  interested  in  her  topic  as  her  com- 
panion. Their  heads  are  very  near  together, — as  near  as 
they  can  well  be  without  kissing.  She  has  placed  her  hand 
upon  his  arm,  and  is  speaking  in  a  low,  earnest  tone, — so 
low  that  Stafford  cannot  hear  distinctly,  the  room  being 
lengthy  and  the  noise  from  the  street  confusing.  How 
handsome  Luttrell  is  looking !  With  what  undisguised 
eagerness  he  is  drinking  in  her  every  word  ! 

Suddenly,  with  a  little  movement  as  though  of  sudden 
remembrance,  Cecil  puts  her  hand  in  her  pocket  and  draws 
from  it  a  tiny  note,  which  she  squeezes  with  much  empresse- 
m&)it  into  Tedcastle's  hand.  Then  follow  a  few  more 
v/ords,  and  then  she  pushes  him  gently  in  the  direction  of 
the  door. 

"  Now  go,"  she  says,  "  and  remember  all  I  have  said  to 
you.  Are  the  conditions  so  hard  ?"  With  her  old  charm- 
ing, bewitching  smile. 

"  How  shall  I  thank  you  ? "  says  the  young  man, 
fervently,  his  whole  face  transformed.  He  seizes  her 
Hands  and  presses  his  lips  to  them  in  what  seems  to  the 
looker-on  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  an  impassioned 


MOLL  Y  BA  WIf.  347 

manner.     "  You  have  managed  that  we  shall  meet, and 

alone?" 

"  Yes,  alone.  I  have  made  sure  of  that.  I  really  think, 
considering  all  I  have  done  for  you,  Tedcastle,  you  owe  ms 
something." 

"Name  anything/'  says  Luttrell,  with  considerable 
fervor.  "  I  owe  you,  as  I  have  said,  everything.  You  are 
my  good  angel ! " 

"  Well,  that  is  as  it  may  be.  All  women  are  angels, — 
at  one  time  or  other.  But  you  must  not  speak  to  me  in 
that  strain,  or  I  shall  mention  some  one  who  would  perhaps 
be  angry."  ("That's  me,  I  presume,"  thinks  Sir  Pen- 
thony,  grimly.)  "  I  suppose  " — archly — "I  need  not  tell 
you  to  be  in  time  ?  To  be  late  under  such  circumstances, 
with  me,  would  mean  dismissal.  Good-bye,  dear  boy  :  go, 
and  my  good  wishes  will  follow  you." 

As  the  door  closes  upon  Luttrell,  Sir  Penthony,  cold, 
and  with  an  alarming  amount  of  dignity  about  him,  comes 
slowly  forward. 

"  Sir  Penthony  !  you  ! "  cries  Cecil,  coloring  certainly, 
but  whether  from  guilt,  or  pleasure,  or  surprise,  he  finds  it 
hard  to  say.  He  inclines,  however,  toward  the  guilt. 
"Why,  I  thought  you  safe  in  Algiers."  (This  is  not 
strictly  true.) 

"  No  doubt.  I  thought  you  safe — in  London — or  any- 
where else.  I  find  myself  mistaken  ! " 

"  I  am,  dear,  perfectly  safe."  Sweetly.  "  Don't  alarm 
yourself  unnecessarily.  But  may  I  ask  what  all  this  means, 
and  why  you  were  hiding  behind  my  curtains  as  though 
you  were  a  burglar  or  a  Bashi-Bazouk  ?  But  that  the 
pantomime  season  is  over,  I  should  say  you  were  practicing 
for  the  Harlequin's  window  trick. 

"You  can  be  as  frivolous  as  you  please."  Sternly. 
"  Frivolity  suits  you  best,  no  doubt.  I  came  in  here  a  half 
an  hour  ago,  having  first  almost  come  to  blows  with  your 
servant  before  being  admitted, — showing  me  plainly  the 
man  had  received  orders  to  allow  no  one  in  but  the  one 
expected." 

"  That  is  an  invaluable  man,  that  Charles,"  murmurs  her 
ladyship,  sotto  voce.  "  I  shall  raise  his  wages.  There  if 
nothing  like  obedience  in  a  servant." 

"  I  was  standing  there  at  that  window,  awaiting  your 
arrival,  when  you  came,  hurried  to  your  boudoir,  spent  an 
intolerable  time  there  with  Luttrell,  and  finally  wound  uf 


348  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

your  interview  here  by  giving  him  a  billet,  and  permitting 
him  to  kiss  your  hands  until  you  ought  to  nave  been 
ashamed  of  yourself  and  him. " 

"  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  lying  perdu  in 
the  curtains  and  listening  to  what  wasn't  meant  for  you." 
Maliciously.  "  You  ought  also  to  have  been  a  detective. 
You  have  wasted  your  talents  frightfully.  Did  Teddy  kiss 
my  hands  ? "  Examining  the  little  white  members  with 
careful  admiration.  "Poor  Ted!  he  might  be  tired  of 
doing  so  by  this.  Well, — yes  ;  and — you  were  saying " 

"  I  insist,"  says  Sir  Penthony,  wrathfully,  "  on  knowing 
what  Luttreil  was  saying  to  you." 

"  I  thought  you  heard." 

"And  why  he  is  admitted  when  others  are  denied." 

"  My  dear  Sir  Penthony,  he  is  my  cousin.  Why  should 
he  not  visit  me  if  he  likes  ?  " 

"  Cousins  be  hanged  !  "  says  Sir  Penthony,  with  consid- 
erable more  force  than  elegance. 

"No,  no,"  says  Cecil,  smoothing  a  little  wrinkle  off  the 
front  of  her  gown,  "  not  always  ;  and  I'm  sure  I  hope  Ted- 
castle  won't  be.  To  my  way  of  thinking,  he  is  quite  the 
nicest  young  man  I  know.  It  would  make  me  positively 
wretched  if  I  thought  Marwood  would  ever  have  him  in  his 
clutches.  You," — reflectively — "  are  my  cousin  too." 

"  I  am, — and  something  more.  You  seem  to  forget  that. 
Do  you  mean  to  answer  my  question  ?  " 

"  Certainly, — if  I  can.  But  do  sit  down,  Sir  Penthony. 
I  am  sure  you  must  be  tired,  you  are  so  dreadfully  out  of 
breath.  Have  you  come  just  now,  this  moment,  straight 
from  Algiers  ?  See,  that  little  chair  over  there  is  so  com- 
fortable. All  my  gentlemen  visitors  adore  that  little  chair. 
No  ?  You  won't  sit  down  ?  Well " 

"  Are  you  in  the  habit  of  receiving  men  so  early  ?" 

"  I  assure  you,"  says  Cecil,  raising  her  brows  with  a 
gentle  air  of  martyrdom,  and  making  a  very  melancholy 
gesture  with  one  hand,  "  I  hardly  know  the  hour  I  don  t 
receive  them.  I  am  absolutely  persecuted  by  my  friends. 
They  will  come.  No  matter  how  disagreeable  it  may  be  to 
me,  they  arrive  just  at  any  hour  that  best  suits  them.  And 
I  am  so  good-natured  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  say  '  Not  at 
home/  " 

"  Yon  brought  yourself  to  say  it  this  morning." 

"  Ah,  yes.  But  that  was  because  I  was  engaged  on  very 
particular  business. " 


MOLL  Y  BA  Wff.  349 

"  What  business  ?  " 

"  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  tell  you." 

"  You  shall,  Cecil.     I  will  not  leave  this  house  until  I 

§et  an  answer.  I  am  your  husband.  I  have  the  right  to 
emand  it.* 

"  You  forget  our  little  arrangement.  I  acknowledge  no 
husband/'  says  Cecil,  with  just  one  flash  from  her  violet 
eyes. 

"  Do  you  refuse  to  answer  me  ?" 

"I  do/'  replies  she,  emphatically. 

"  Then  I  shall  stay  here  until  you  alter  your  mind/'  says 
Sir  Penthony,  with  an  air  of  determination,  settling  himself 
with  what  in  a  low  class  of  men  would  have  been  a  bang, 
in  the  largest  arm-chair  the  room  contains. 

With  an  unmoved  countenance  Lady  Stafford  rises  and 
rings  the  bell. 

Dead  silence. 

Then  the  door  opens,  and  a  rather  elderly  servant  ap- 
pears upon  the  threshold. 

"  Martin,  Sir  Penthony  will  lunch  here/'  says  Cecil, 
calmly.  "  And — stay,  Martin.  Do  you  think  it  likely  you 
will  dine,  Sir  Penthony  ?w 

"I  do  think  it  likely/'  replies  he,  with  as  much  grimness 
as  etiquette  will  permit  before  the  servant. 

'*  Sir  Penthony  thinks  it  likely  he  will  dine,  Martin.  Let 
cook  know.  And — can  I  order  you  anything  you  would 
specially  prefer  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  nothing.  Pray  give  yourself  no  trouble  on 
my  account." 

"  It  would  be  a  pleasure, — the  more  so  that  it  is  so  rare. 
Stay  yet  a  moment,  Martin,  May  I  order  you  a  bed,  Sir 
Penthony  ?" 

"  I  am  not  sure.  I  will  let  you  know  later  on,"  replies 
Stafford,  who,  to  his  rage  and  disgust,  finds  himself  in- 
wardly convulsed  with  laughter. 

"That  will  do,  Martin,  says  her  ladyship,  with  the  ut- 
most bonhommie.  And  Martin  retires. 

As  the  door  closes,  the  combatants  regard  each  other 
steadily  for  a  full  minute,  and  then  they  both  roar. 

**  You  are  the  greatest  little  wretch,"  says  Sir  Penthony, 
going  over  to  her  and  taking  both  her  hands,  "  it  has  ever 
been  my  misfortune  to  meet  with.  I  am  laughing  now 
against  my  will,— remember  that.  I  am  in  a  frantic  rage. 
Will  you  tell  me  what  all  that  scene  between  you  and  Lut- 


MOLL  Y  BA  IVtf. 

trell  was  about  ?  If  you  don't  I  shall  go  straight  and  ask 
him." 

"  What  !  And  leave  me  here  to  work  my  wicked  will  ? 
Reflect — reflect.  I  thought  you  were  going  to  mount  guard 
here  all  day.  Think  on  all  the  sins  I  shall  be  committing 
in  vour  absence. " 

She  has  left  her  hands  in  his  all  this  time,  and  is  regard- 
ing him  with  a  gay  smile,  under  which  she  hardly  hides  a 
good  deal  of  offended  pride. 

"  Don't  be  rash,  I  pray  you,"  she  says,  with  a  gleam  of 
malice. 

"  The  man  who  "^aid  pretty  women  were  at  heart  the 
kindest  lied,"  says  Jir  Penthony,  standing  over  her,  tall, 
and  young,  and  very  nearly  handsome.  "  You  know  I  am 
in  misery  all  this  time,  and  that  a  word  from  you  would 
relieve  me, — yet  you  will  not  speak  it." 

"  Would  you" — very  gravely — "  credit  the  word  of  such 
a  sinner  as  you  would  make  me  out  to  be  ?  " 

"  A  sinner  !     Surely  I  have  never  called  you  that." 

"  You  would  call  me  anything  when  you  get  into  one  of 
those  horrid  passions.  Come,  are  you  sorry  ?  " 

"  I  am  more  than  sorry.  I  confess  myself  a  brute  if  I 
ever  even  hinted  at  such  a  word, — which  I  doubt.  The 
most  I  feared  was  your  imprudence." 

"  From  all  I  can  gather,  that  means  quite  the  same  thing 
when  said  of  a  woman." 

"  Well,  /don't  mean  it  as  the  same.  And,  to  prove  my 
words,  if  you  will  only  grant  me  forgiveness,  I  will  not  e^en 
mention  Tedcastle's  name  again." 

"  But  I  insist  on  telling  you  every  word  he  said  to  me, 
and  all  about  it." 

"  If  you  had  insisted  on  that  half  an  hour  ago  you  would 
have  saved  thirty  minutes,"  says  Stafford,  laughing. 

"  TJien  I  would  not  gratify  you  ;  now Tedcastle 

came  here,  poor  fellow,  in  a  wretched  state  about  Molly 
Massereene,  whose  secret  he  has  at  length  discovered. 
About  eleven  o'clock  last  night  he  rushed  in  here  almost 
distracted  to  get  her  address  ;  so  I  went  to  Molly  early  this 
morning,  obtained  leave  to  give  it, — and  a  love-letter  aa 
well,  which  you  saw  me  deliver, — and  all  his  raptures  and, 
tender  epithets  were  meant  for  her,  and  not  for  me.  Is  it 
not  a  humiliating  confession?  Even  when  he  kissed  my 
hands  it  was  only  in  gratitude,  and  his  heart  was  full  of 
Molly  all  the  time." 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 


361 


'  Then  it  was  not  you  he  was  to  meet  alone  ?  " — eagerly. 

"What!  Still  suspicious?  No,  sir,  it  was  not  your 
wife  he  was  to  meet  '  alone/  Now,  are  you  properly 
abashed  ?  Are  you  satisfied  ?  " 

"  I  am,  and  deeply  contrite.  Yet,  Cecil,  you  must  know 
what  it  is  causes  me  such  intolerable  jealousy,  and,  know- 
ing, you  should  pardon.  My  love  for  you  only  increases 
day  by  day.  Tell  me  again  1  am  forgiven." 

"Yes,  quite  forgiven." 

"And" — stealing  his  arm  gently  round  her — "are  you 
in  the  smallest  degree  glad  to  see  me  again  ?  " 

"In  a  degree,— yes."  Kaising  to  his,  two  eyes,  full  of 
something  more  than  common  gladness. 

"Really?" 

"Really." 

He  looks  at  her,  but  she  refuses  to  understand  his  ap- 
pealing expression,  and  regards  him  calmly  in  return. 

"  Cecil,  how  cold  you  are  ! "  he  says,  reproachfully. 
' '  Think  how  long  I  have  been  away  from  you,  and  what  a 
journey  I  have  come." 

"  True  ;  you  must  be  hungry."  With  willful  ignorance 
of  his  meaning. 

"  I  am  not.  Indignantly.  "  But  I  think  you  might — 
after  three  weary  months,  that  to  me,  at  least,  were  twelve 
— you  might " 

"  You  want  me  to — kiss  you  ? "  says  Cecil,  promptly, 
but  with  a  rising  blush.  "  Well,  I  will,  then." 

Lifting  her  head,  she  presses  her  lips  to  his  with  a  fervor 
that  takes  him  utterly  by  surprise. 

"Cecil,"  whispers  he,  growing  a  little  pale,  "do  yon 
mean  it  ?  " 

"Mean  what?"  Coloring  crimson  now,  but  laughing 
also.  "  I  mean  this  :  if  we  don't  go  down-stairs  soon 
luncheon  will  be  cold.  And,  remember,  I  hold  you  to  your 
engagement.  You  dine  with  me  to-day.  Is  not  that  so  ?  " 

"  You  know  how  glad  I  shall  be." 

"Well,  I  hope  now,"  says  Cecil,  "you  intend  to  reform, 
and  give  up  traveling  aimlessly  all  over  the  unknown  world 
at  stated  intervals.  I  hope  for  the  future  you  mean  staying 
at  home  like  a  respectable  Christian." 

"  If  I  had  a  home.  Yon  can't  call  one's  club  a  home, 
can  you  ?  I  would  stay  anywhere, — with  you." 

"I  could  not  possibly  undertake  such  a  responsibility. 
Still,  I  should  like  you  to  remain  in  London,  where  I  could 


362  MOLLY  BAWN. 

look  after  you  a  little  bit  now  and  then,  and  keep  you  in 
order.  I  adore  keeping  people  in  order.  I  am  thrown 
away,"  says  Cecil,  shaking  her  flaxen  head  sadly.  "  I  know 
I  was  born  to  rule." 

"  You  do  a  great  deal  of  it  even  in  your  own  limited 
sphere,  don't  you  ?"  says  her  husband,  laughing.  "I  know 
at  least  one  unfortunate  individual  who  is  completely  under 
your  control." 

"No.  lam  dreadfully  cramped.  But  come;  in  spite 
of  all  the  joy  I  naturally  feel  at  your  safe  return,  I  find  my 
appetite  unimpaired.  Luncheon  is  ready.  Follow  me,  my 
friend.  I  pine  for  a  cutlet." 

They  eat  their  cutlets  tete-a-tete,  and  with  ev.Vient  ap- 
preciation of  their  merits  ;  the  servants  regarding  the  per- 
formance with  intense  though  silent  admiration.  In  their 
opinion  (and  who  shall  dispute  the  accuracy  of  a  servant's 
opinion  ?),  this  is  the  beginning  of  the  end. 

When  luncheon  is  over,  Lady  Stafford  rises. 

"  I  am  going  for  my  drive,"  she  says.  "  But  what  is  to 
become  of  you  until  dinner-hour  ?  " 

"I  shall  accompany  you."     Audaciously. 

"  You  !     What  !     To  have  all  London  laughing  at  me  ?  " 

"Let  them.  A  laugh  will  do  them  good,  and  you  no 
harm.  How  can  it  matter  to  you  ?  " 

"  True.  It  cannot.  And  after  all  to  be  laughed  at  one 
must  be  talked  about.  And  to  be  talked  about  means  to 
create  a  sensation.  And  I  should  like  to  create  a  sensation 
before  I  die.  Yes,  Sir  Penthony," — with  a  determined  air, 
—"you  shall  have  a  seat  in  my  carriage  to-day." 

"And  how  about  to-morrow  ?" 

"  To-morrow  probably  some  other  fair  lady  will  take 
pity  on  you.  It  would  be  much  too  slow," — mischievously 
— "to  expect  you  to  go  driving  with  your  wife  every  day." 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  see  it  in  that  light.  Cecil," — com- 
ing to  her  side,  and  with  a  sudden  though  gentle  boldness, 
taking  her  in  his  arms, — "  when  are  you  going  to  forgive 
me  and  take  me  to  your  heart  ?  " 

"  What  is  it  you  want,  you  tiresome  man  ?  "  asks  Cecil, 
with  a  miserable  attempt  at  a  frown. 

"  Your  love,"  replies  he,  kissing  the  weak-minded  little 
pucker  off  her  forehead  and  the  pretended  pout  from  her 
lips,  without  this  time  saying,  "  by  your  leave,"  or  "  with 
your  leave." 

"  And  when  you  have  it,  what  then  ?  " 


MOLLY  BAWtf.  353 

"  I  shall  be  the  happiest  man  alive. " 

"  Then  be  the  happiest  man  alive, "  murmurs  she,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  although  the  smile  still  lingers  round  her 
lips. 

It  is  thus  she  gives  in. 

"  And  when/'  asks  Stafford,  half  an  hour  later,  all  the 
retrospective  confessions  and  disclosures  having  taken  some 
time  to  get  through, — "  when  shall  I  install  a  mistress  in 
the  capacious  but  exceedingly  gloomy  abode  my  ancestors 
so  unkindly  left  to  me  ?  " 

"  Do  not  even  think  of  such  a  thing  for  ever  so  long. 
Perhaps  next  summer  I  may " 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !    Why  not  say  this  time  ten  years?  " 

"But  at  present  my  thoughts  are  full  of  my  dear  Molly. 
Ah  !  when  shall  I  see  her  as  happy  as — as — I  am  ?" 

Here  Sir  Penthony,  moved  by  a  sense  of  duty  and  a 
knowledge  of  the  fitness  of  things,  instantly  kisses  her 
again. " 

He  has  barely  performed  this  necessary  act  when  the 
redoubtable  Charles  puts  his  head  in  at  the  door  and 


"The  carnage  is  waiting,  my  lady." 

"Very  good,"  returns  Lady  Stafford,  who,  according  to 
Charles's  version  of  the  affair,  a  few  hours  later,  is  as  "  red 
as  a  peony."  "  You  will  stay  here,  Penthony," — murmur- 
ing his  name  with  a  grace  and  a  sweet  hesitation  quite  ir- 
resistible,— "  while  I  go  and  make  ready  for  our  drive." 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

"  When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sigh'd  for  thee  ; 

When  light  rode  high,  »nd  the  dew  was  gone. 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  day  turn'd  to  his  rest, 
Lingering  like  an  unlored  guest, 

I  sighed  for  thee. — SHSLLET. 

Isr  her  own  small  chamber,  with  all  her  pretty  hair  fall- 
ing loosely  round  her,  stands  Molly  b«f  ore  her  glass,  a  smile 
upon  her  lips.  For  is  not  her  lover  to  be  with  her  in  two 
short  hours  ?  Already,  perhaps,  he  id  on  hia  way  to  her,  ai 


354  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

amdous,  as  eager  to  fold  her  in  hiss  arms  as  she  will  be  to 
fly  to  them. 

A  sweet  agitation  possesses  her.  Her  every  thought  la 
fraught  with  joy  ;  and  if  at  times  a  misgiving,  a  suspicion 
of  the  hopelessness  of  it  all,  comes  as  a  shadow  between  her 
and  the  sun  of  her  content  (for  is  not  her  marriage  with 
Luttrell  a  thing  as  remote  now  as  when  they  parted  ?),  she 
puts  it  from  her  and  refuses  to  acknowledge  a  single  flaw 
in  this  one  day's  happiness. 

She  brushes  out  her  long  hair,  rolling  it  into  its  usual 
soft  knot  behind,  and  weaves  a  kiss  or  two  and  a  few  ten- 
der words  into  each  rich  coil.  She  dons  her  prettiest 
gown,  and  puts  on  all  the  bravery  she  possesses,  to  make 
herself  more  fair  in  the  eyes  of  her  beloved,  lest  by  any 
means  he  should  think  her  less  worthy  of  regard  than  when 
last  he  saw  her. 

With  a  final,  almost  dissatisfied,  glance  at  the  mirror  she 
goes  down-stairs  to  await  his  coming,  all  her  heart  one  glad 
song. 

She  tries  to  work  to  while  away  the  time,  but  her  usually 
clever  fingers  refuse  their  task,  and  the  canvas  falls  un- 
heeded to  the  floor. 

She  tries  to  read  ;  but,  alas  !  all  the  words  grow  together 
and  fcrm  themselves  into  one  short  sentence  :  "  He  is 
coming — coming — coming." 

Insensibly  Tennyson's  words  come  to  her,  and,  closing 
her  eyes,  she  repeats  them  softly  to  herself  : 

"  0  days  and  hours,  your  work  is  this, 
To  hold  me  from  my  proper  place 
A  little  while  from  his  embrace, 
For  fuller  gain  of  after-bliss. 
****** 
"  That  out  of  distance  might  ensue 
Desire  of  nearness  doubly  sweet, 
And  unto  meeting,  when  we  meet, 
Delight  a  hundredfold  accrue  I " 

At  length  the  well-known  step  is  heard  upon  the  stairs, 
the  well-known  voice,  that  sends  a  very  pang  of  joy  through, 
every  pulse  in  her  body,  sounds  eagerly  through  the  house. 
His  hand  is  on  the  door. 

With  a  sudden  treimbling  she  says  to  herself : 

"  I  will  be  calm.  He  must  not  know  how  dearly  he  is 
loved." 

And  then  the  door  opens.     He  is  before  her.     A  host  of 


MOLL  Y  BA  WK.  355 

recollections,  sweet  and  bitter,  rise  with  his  presence  ;  and, 
forgetful  of  her  determination  to  be  calm  and  dignified  as 
well  for  his  sake  as  her  own,  she  lets  the  woman  triumph, 
and,  with  a  little  cry,  sad  from  the  longing  and  despair  of 
it,  she  runs  forward  and  throws  herself,  with  a  sob,  into 
his  expectant  arms. 

At  first  they  do  not  speak.  He  does  not  even  kiss  her, 
only  holds  her  closely  in  his  embrace,  as  one  holds  some 

Erecious  thing,  some  priceless  possession  that,  once  lost, 
as  been  regained. 

Then  they  do  kiss  each  other,  gravely,  tenderly,  with  » 
gentle  lingering. 

"  It  is  indeed  you,"  she  says,  at  last,  regarding  him  wist- 
fully  with  a  certain  pride  of  possession,  he  looks  so  tall, 
and  strong,  and  handsome  in  her  eyes.  She  examines  him 
critically,  and  yet  finds  nothing  wanting.  He  is  to  her 
perfection,  as,  indeed  (unhappily),  a  man  always  is  to  the 
woman  who  lores  him.  Could  she  at  this  moment  concen- 
trate her  thoughts,  I  think  she  would  apply  to  him  all  th» 
charms  contained  in  the  following  lines  : 

"  A  mouth  for  mastery  and  manful  work; 
A  certain  brooding  sweetness  in  the  eyes; 
A  brow  the  harbor  of  fair  thought,  and  hair 
Saxon  in  hue." 

"  You  are  just  the  same  as  ever,''  she  says,  presently, 
*'*  only  taller,  I  really  think,  and  broader  and  bigger  alto- 
gether."  Then,  in  a  little  soft  whisper,  "My  dear, — my 
darling." 

"  And  you,"  he  says,  taking  the  sweet  face  he  has  so 
hungered  for  between  his  hands,  the  better  to  mark  each 
change  time  may  have  wrought,  "you  have  grown  thinner. 
You  are  paler.  Darling," — a  heavy  shadow  falling  across 
his  face, — "  you  are  well, — quite  well  ?" 

"Perfectly,"  she  answers,  lightly,  pleased  at  his  uneasi- 
ness. "  Town  life— the  city  air — has  whitened  me  :  that 
is  all." 

"  But  these  hollows  ?  "  Touching  gently  her  soft  cheeks 
with  a  dissatisfied  air.  They  are  a  little  snnk.  She  is 
altogether  thinner,  frailer  than  of  yore.  Her  very  fingers 
as  they  lie  in  his  look  slenderer,  more  fragile. 

'•'  Perhaps  a  little  fretting  has  done  it,"  she  answers,  with 
n  smile  and  a  half-suppressed  sigh. 

He  echoes  the  sigh  ;  and  it  may  be  a  few  tears  for  all  tU« 


356  MOLLY  BAWX. 

long  hours  spent  apart  gather  in  their  eyes,  "in  thinking 
of  the  days  that  are  no  more." 

Presently,  when  they  are  calmer,  more  forgetful  of  their 
separation,  they  seat  themselves  upon  a  sofa  and  fall  into  a 
happy  silence.  His  arm  is  round  her ;  her  hand  rests  in 
his. 

"  Of  what  are  you  thinking,  sweetheart  ?  "  he  asks,  after 
a  while,  stooping  to  meet  her  gaze. 

"  A  happy  thought,"  she  answers.  "  I  am  realizing  how 
good  a  thing  it  is  '  to  feel  the  arms  of  my  true  love  round 
me  once  again/  " 

"  And  yet  it  was  of  your  own  free  will  they  were  ever 
loosened." 

"Of  my  free  will?"  Keproachfully.  "No;  no." 
Then,  turning  away  from  him,  she  says,  in  a  low  tone, 
"  What  did  you  think  when  you  saw  me  singing  last 
night  ?  " 

"  That  I  had  never  seen  you  look  so  lovely  in  my 
life." 

11 1  don't  mean  that,  Teddy.  What  did  you  think  when 
you  saw  me  singing — so  ?  " 

"  I  wished  I  was  a  millionaire,  that  I  might  on  the  in- 
stant rescue  you  from  such  a  life,"  replies  he,  with  much 
emotion. 

"Ah!  you  felt  like  that?  I,  too,  was  unhappy.  For 
the  first  time  since  I  began  my  new  life  it  occurred  to  me 
to  be  ashamed.  To  know  that  you  saw  me  reminded  me 
that  others  saw  me  too,  and  the  knowledge  brought  a  flush 
to  my  cheek.  I  am  singing  again  on  Tuesday  ;  but  you 
must  not  come  to  hear  me.  I  could  not  sing  before  you 
again." 

"  Of  course  I  will  not,  if  it  distresses  you.  May  I  meet 
you  outside  and  accompany  you  home  ?  " 

"  Better  not.  People  talk  so  much  ;  and — there  is 
always  such  a  crowd  outside  that  door." 

"  The  nights  you  sing.  Have  you  had  any  lovers,  Molly  ?  " 
asks  he,  abruptly,  with  a  visible  effort. 

"Several," — smiling  at  his  perturbation, — "and  two 
bonafide  proposals.  I  might  have  been  the  blushing  bride 
of  a  baronet  now  had  I  so  chosen." 

"Was  he— rich?" 

"  Fabulously  so,  I  was  told.  And  I  am  sure  he  was  com- 
fortably provided  for,  though  I  never  heard  the  exact 
amount  of  his  rent-roll," 


MOLL  Y  BA  Wtf.  357 

"  Why  did  you  refuse  him  ?  "  asks  Luttrell,  moodily,  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground. 

"I  shall  leave  you  to  answer  that  question/'  replies  she, 
with  all  her  old  archness.  '  *  I  cannot.  Perhaps  because  I 
didn't  care  for  him.  Not  but  what  he  was  a  nice  old  gentle- 
man, and  wonderfully  preserved.  I  met  him  at  one  of 
Cecil's  '  at  homes/  and  he  professed  himself  deeply  enamored 
of  me.  I  might  also  have  been  the  wife  of  a  very  young 
gentleman  in  the  Foreign  Office,  with  a  most  promising 
moustache  ;  but  I  thought  of  you," — laughing,  and  giving 
his  hand  a  little  squeeze, — "  and  I  bestowed  upon  him  such 
an  emphatic  (  No  as  turned  his  love  to  loathing." 

"  "To-morrow  or  next  day  you  may  have  a  marquis  at 
your  feet,  or  some  other  tremendous  swell — and * 

"  Or  one  of  our  own  princes.  I  see  nothing  to  prevent 
it,"  says  Molly,  still  laughing.  "  Nonsense,  Teddy  ;  don't 
be  an  old  goose.  You  should  know  by  this  time  now  it  is 
with  me." 

"  I  am  a  selfish  fellow,  am  I  not  ?  "  says  Luttrell,  wist- 
fully. ' '  The  very  thought  that  any  one  wants  to  take  you 
from  me  renders  me  perfectly  miserable.  And  yet  I  know 
I  ought  to  give  you  up, — to — to  encourage  you  to  accept 
an  offer  that  would  place  you  in  a  position  I  shall  never  be 
able  to  give  you.  But  I  cannot.  Molly,  I  have  come  all 
this  way  to  ask  you  again  to  marry  me,  and " 

"  Hush,  Teddy.     You  know  it  is  impossible." 

"  Why  is  it  impossible  ?  Other  people  have  lived  and 
been  happy  on  five  hundred  pounds  a  year.  And  after  a 
while  something  might  turn  up  to  enable  us  to  help  Letitia 
and  the  children." 

"  You  are  a  little  selfish  now,"  she  says,  with  gentle  re- 
proach. "  I  could  not  let  Letitia  be  without  my  help  for 
even  a  short  time.  And  would  you  like  your  wife  to  sing 
in  public,  for  money  ?  Look  at  it  in  that  light,  and  answer 
me  truly." 

"No,"  without  hesitation.  "Not  that  your  singing  in 
public  lowers  you  in  the  faintest  degree  in  any  one's  esti- 
mation ;  but  I  would  not  let  my  wife  support  herself.  I 
could  not  endure  the  thought.  But  might  not  I " 

"  You  might  not," — raising  her  eyes, — "nor  would  I  let 
yon.  I  work  for  those  I  love,  and  in  that  no  one  can  help 
me." 

"  Are  both  our  lives,  then,  to  be  sacrificed  ?  " 

"  I  will  not  call  it  a  sacrifice  on  my  part/'  says  the  girl, 


868  MOLLY  HAW N. 

bravely,  although  tears  are  heavy  in  her  voice  and  oyes.  "  I 
am.  only  doing  some  little  thing  for  him  who  did  all  i'or  me. 
There  is  a  joy  that  is  almost  sacred  in  the  thought.  It  has 
taken  from  me  the  terrible  sting  of  his  death.  To  know  I 
can  still  please  him,  can  work  for  him,  brings  him  back  to 
me  from  the  other  world.  At  times  I  lose  the  sense  of 
farness,  and  can  feel  him  almost  near." 

"  You  are  too  good  for  me,"  says  the  young  man,  humbly, 
taking  her  hands  and  kissing  them  twice. 

"  I  am  not.  You  must  not  say  so,"  says  Molly,  hastily, 
the  touch  of  his  lips  weakening  her. 

Two  large  tears  that  have  been  slowly  gathering  roll 
down  her  cheeks. 

"  Oh,  Teddy  ! "  cries  she,  suddenly,  covering  her  face 
with  her  hands,  "at  times,  when  I  see  certain  flowers  or 
hear  some  music  connected  with  the  olden  days,  my  heart 
dies  within  me, — I  lose  all  hope  ;  and  then  I  miss  you 
•orejy, — sorely." 

Her  head  is  on  his  breast  by  this  time  ;  his  strong 
young  arms  are  round  her,  holding  her  as  though  they 
would  forever  shield  her  from  the  pains  and  griefs  of  this 
world. 

"I  have  felt  just  like  you/'  he  says,  simply.  "  But  after 
all,  whatever  comes,  we  have  each  other.  There  should  be 
comfort  in  that.  Had  death  robbed  us — you  of  me  or  me 
of  you — then  we  might  indeed  mourn.  But  as  it  is  there  is 
always  hope.  Can  you  not  try  to  find  consolation  in  the 
thought  that,  no  matter  where  I  may  be,  however  far  away, 
I  am  your  lover  forever  ?  " 

"  I  know  it,"  says  Molly,  inexpressibly  comforted. 

Their  trust  is  of  the  sweetest  and  fullest.  No  cruel 
coldness  has  crept  in  to  defile  their  perfect  love.  Living  as 
they  are  on  a  mere  shadow,  a  faint  streak  of  hope,  that 
may  never  break  into  a  fuller  gleam,  they  still  are  almost 
happy.  He  loves  her.  Her  heart  is  all  his  own.  These 
are  their  crumbs  of  comfort, — sweet  fragments  that  never 
fail  them. 

Now  he  leads  her  away  from  the  luckless  subject  of 
their  engagement  altogether,  and  presently  she  is  laughing 
over  some  nonsensical  tale  he  is  telling  her  connected  with 
the  old  life.  She  is  asking  him  questions,  and  he  is  telling 
her  all  he  knows. 

Philip  has  been  abroad — no  one  knows  where — for 
months  ;  but  suddenly,  and  just  as  mysteriously  as  he  de- 


MOLLY  BAWN.  359 

parted,  he  turned  up  a  few  days  ago  at  Herat,  where  the 
old  man  is  slowly  fading.  The  winter  has  been  a  severe 
one,  and  they  think  his  days  are  numbered. 

The  Darleys  have  at  last  come  to  an  open  rupture,  and 
a  friendly  separation  is  being  arranged. 

"  And  what  of  my  dear  friend,  Mr.  Potts  ? "  asks 
Molly. 

"  Oh,  Potts  !  I  left  him  behind  me  in  Dublin.  He  is 
uncommonly  well,  and  has  been  all  the  winter  pottering — 
by  the  bye,  that  is  an  appropriate  word,  isn't  it  ? — reminds 
one  of  one  of  his  own  jokes — after  a  girl  who  rather  fancies 
him,  in  spite  of  his  crimson  locks,  or  perhaps  because  of 
them.  That  particular  shade  is,  happily,  rare.  She  has  a 
little  money,  too, — at  least  enough  to  make  her  an  heiress 
in  Ireland." 

"  Poor  Ireland  ! "  says  Molly.  "  Some  day  perhaps  I 
shall  go  there,  and  judge  of  its  eccentricities  myself." 

"By  the  bye,  Molly,  says  Luttrell,  with  an  impromptu 
air,  "  did  you  ever  see  the  Tower  ?  " 

"Hever,  I  am  ashamed  to  say." 

"  I  share  your  sentiments.  Never  have  I  planted  my 
foot  upon  so  much  as  the  lowest  step  of  its  interminable 
stairs.  I  feel  keenly  the  disgrace  of  such  an  acknowledg- 
ment. Shall  we  let  another  hour  pass  without  retrieving 
our  false  position  ?  A  thousand  times  'no/  Go  and  put 
your  bonnet  on,  Molly,  and  we  will  make  a  day  of  it." 

And  they  do  make  a  day  of  it,  and  are  as  foolishly, 
thoughtlessly,  unutterably  happy  as  youth  and  love  com- 
bined can  be  in  the  very  face  of  life's  disappointments. 


The  first  flush  of  her  joy  on  meeting  Lnttrell  being 
over,  Molly  grows  once  more  depressed  and  melancholy. 

Misfortune  has  so  far  subdued  her  that  now  she  looks 
npon  her  future,  not  with  the  glad  and  hopeful  eyes  of  old, 
but  through  a  tearful  mist,  while  dwelling  with  a  sad  un- 
certainty upon  its  probable  results. 

When  in  the  presence  of  her  lorer  she  rises  out  of  her- 
self, and  for  the  time  being  forgets,  or  appears  to  forget, 
her  troubles  ;  but  when  away  from  him  she  grows  moody 
and  unhappy. 

Oonld  she  see  but  a  chance  of  erer  being  abla  to  alter 
her  present  mode  of  life— before  youth  and  hope  are  over 


360  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

— she  would  perhaps  take  her  courage  by  both  hands 
and  compel  it  to  remain.  But  no  such  chance  presents 
itself. 

To  forsake  Letitia  is  to  leave  her  and  the  children  to 
starve.  For  how  could  Luttrell  support  them  all  on  a 
miserable  pittance  of  five  hundred  pounds  a  year  ?  The 
idea  is  preposterous.  It  is  the  same  old  story  over  again  ; 
the  same  now  as  it  was  four  months  ago,  without  altera- 
tion or  improvement ;  and,  as  she  tells  herself,  will  be  the 
same  four  years  hence. 

Whatever  Luttrell  himself  may  think  upon  the  subject 
he  keeps  within  his  breast,  and  for  the  first  week  of  his 
stay  is  apparently  supremely  happy. 

Occasionally  he  speaks  as  though  their  marriage  is  a 
thing  that  sooner  or  later  must  be  consummated,  and  will 
not  see  that  when  he  does  so  Molly  maintains  either  a  dead 
silence  or  makes  some  disheartening  remark. 

At  last  she  can  bear  it  no  longer  ;  and  one  day  toward 
the  close  of  his  "  leave,"  when  his  sentiments  appear  to  bt 
particularly  sanguine,  she  makes  up  her  mind  to  compel 
him  to  accept  a  release  from  what  must  be  an  interminable 
waiting. 

"  How  can  we  go  on  like  this,"  she  says,  bursting  into 
tears,  "  you  forever  entreating,  I  forever  denying  ?  It 
breaks  my  heart,  and  is  unfair  to  you.  Our  engagement 
must  end.  It  is  for  your  sake  I  speak." 

"  You  are  too  kind.  Will  you  not  let  me  judge  what  is 
best  for  my  own  happiness  ?  " 

"  No  ;  because  you  are  mad  on  this  one  matter." 

"  You  wish  to  release  me  from  my  promise  ?  " 

"I  do.     For  your  own  good." 

"  Then  I  will  not  be  released.  Because  freedom  would 
not  lead  to  the  desired  result." 

"  It  would.  It  must.  It  is  useless  our  going  on  so.  I 
can  never  marry.  You  see  yourself  I  cannot.  If  you  were 
rich,  or  if  I  were  rich,  why,  then " 

"  If  you  were  I  would  not  marry  you,  in  ail  proba- 
bility." 

"  And  why  ?  Should  I  not  be  the  same  Molly  then  ?  * 
With  a  wan  little  smile.  "  Well,  if  you  were  rich  I  would 
marry  you  gladly,  because  I  know  your  love  for  me  is  so 
great  you  would  not  feel  my  dear  ones  a  burden.  But  as  it 
is — yes — yea — we  must  part." 

"  You  eaa  apeak  ol  it  with  admirable  coolness,'"  says  ^ 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  361 

rather  savagely.  "  After  all,  at  the  best  of  times  your  love 
for  me  was  lukewarm/' 

"  Was  it  ?  ''  she  says,  and  turns  away  from  him  hurt  and 
offended. 

"Is  my  love  the  thing  of  an  hour,"  he  goes  on,  angry 
with  her  and  with  himself  in  that  he  has  displeased  her, 
"  that  you  should  talk  of  the  good  to  be  derived  from  the 
sundering  of  our  engagement  ?  I  wish  to  know  what  it  is 
you  mean.  Do  you  want  to  leave  yourself  free  to  marry  a 
richer  man  ?  " 

"How  you  misjudge  me?"  she  says,  shrinking  as  if 
from  a  blow.  "  I  shall  never  marry.  All  I  want  to  do  is 
to  leave  you  free  to  " — with  a  sob — "  to — choose  whom  you 
may." 

"  Very  good.  If  it  pleases  you  to  think  I  am  free,  as  you 
call  it,  be  it  so.  Our  engagement  is  at  an  end.  I  may 
marry  my  mother's  cook  to-morrow  morning,  if  it  so  pleases 
me,  without  a  dishonorable  feeling.  Is  that  what  you  want  ? 
Are  you  satisfied  now  ?  " 

"  Yes."    But  she  is  crying  bitterly  as  she  says  it. 

"  And  do  you  think,  my  sweet,"  whispers  he,  folding  her 
in  his  arms,  "  that  all  this  nonsense  can  take  your  image  from 
my  heart,  or  blot  out  the  remembrance  of  all  your  gentle 
ways  ?  For  my  part,  I  doubt  it.  Come,  why  don't  you 
smile  ?  You  have  everything  your  own  way  now  ;  you 
should,  therefore,  be  in  exuberant  spirits.  You  may  be  on 
the  lookout  for  an  elderly  merchant  prince  ;  I  for  the  dusky 
heiress  of  a  Southern  planter.  But  I  warn  you,  Mollv,  you 
shan't  insist  upon  my  marrying  her,  unless  I  like  her  better 
than  you." 

"  You  accept  the  words,  but  not  the  spirit,  of  my  prop- 
osition," she  says,  sadly. 

"  Because  it  is  a  spiritless  proposition  altogether,  without 
grace  or  meaning.  Come,  now,  don't  martyr  yourself  any 
more.  I  am  free,  and  you  are  free,  and  we  can  go  on  lov- 
ing each  other  all  the  same.  It  isn't  half  a  bad  arrange- 
ment, and  so  soothing  to  the  conscience  !  1  always  had  a 
remorseful  feeling  that  I  was  keeping  you  from  wedding 
with  a  duke,  or  a  city  magnate,  or  an  archbishop.  In  the 
meantime  I  suppose  I  may  be  allowed  to  vi»*t  jour  High- 
ness (in  anticipation)  daily,  as  usual  ?  " 

"I  suppose  so."    With  hesitation. 

"  I  wonder  you  didn't  say  no,  you  hard-hearted  child. 
Not  that  it  would  have  made  the  slightest  difference,  as  I 


362  MOLL  Y  3 A  Wtf. 

should  have  come  whether  you  liked  it  or  not.  And  now 
come  out — do  ;  the  sun  is  shining,  and  will  melt  away  thi* 
severe  attack  of  the  blues.  Let  us  go  into  the  Park  and 
watch  for  our  future  prey, — you  for  your  palsied  millionaire, 
I  for  my  swarthy  West  Indian." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

"  Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel,  and  lower  the  proud." 

— Idylls  of  the  King. 

THE  very  next  morning  brings  Molly  the  news  of  her 
grandfather's  death.  He  had  died  quietly  in  his  chair  the 
day  before  without  a  sign,  and  without  one  near  him.  As 
he  had  lived,  so  had  he  died — alone. 

The  news  conveyed  by  Mr.  Buscarlet  shocks  Molly 
greatly,  and  causes  her,  if  not  actual  sorrow,  at  least  a  keen 
regret.  To  have  him  die  thus,  without  reconciliation  or 
one  word  of  forgiveness, — to  have  him  go  from  this  world 
to  the  next,  hard  of  heart  and  unrelenting,  saddens  her  for 
his  soul's  sake. 

The  funeral  is  to  be  on  Thursday,  and  this  is  Tuesday. 
So  Mr.  Buscarlet  writes,  and  adds  that,  by  express  desire 
of  Mr.  Amherst,  the  will  is  to  be  opened  and  read  immedi- 
ately after  the  funeral  before  all  those  who  spent  last  autumn 
in  his  house.  "  Your  presence,"  writes  the  attorney,  "  is 
particularly  desired." 

In  the  afternoon  Lady  Stafford  drops  in,  laden,  as  usual, 
with  golden  grain  (like  the  Argosy),  in  the  shape  of  cakes 
and  sweetmeats  for  the  children,  who  look  upon  her  with 
much  reverence  in  the  light  of  a  modern  and  much-im- 
proved Santa  Glaus. 

"  I  see  you  have  heard  of  your  grandfather's  death  by 
your  face,  she  says,  gravely.  "Here,  children/' — throw- 
ing them  their  several  packages, — "  take  yowr  property  and 
run  away  while  I  have  a  chat  with  mamma  and  Auntie 
Molly." 

"  Teddy  brought  us  such  nice  sugar  cigars  yesterday/' 
says  Renee,  who,  in  her  black  frock  and  white  pinafore  and 
golden  locks,  looks  perfectly  angelic  :  "only  I  was  sorry 
they  weren't  real ;  the  fire  at  the  end  didn't  burn  one  bit." 


MOLLY'  BAWN.  3^3 

*'  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

e< Because " — with  an  enchanting  smile — "I  put  it  on 
Daisy's  hand,  to  see  if  it  would,  and  it  wouldn't :  and  wasn't 
it  a  pity  ?  " 

"It  was,  indeed.  I  am  sure  Daisy  sympathizes  with 
your  grief.  There,  go  away,  you  blood-thirsty  child  j  w« 
are  very  busy." 

While  the  children,  in  some  remote  corner  of  the  house, 
are  growing  gradually  happier  and  stickier,  their  elders 
discuss  the  last  new  topic. 

"  I  received  a  letter  this  morning,"  Cecil  says,  "  sum- 
moning me  to  Herst,  to  hear  the  will  read.  You,  too,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  though  why  I  don't  know." 

'•  I  am  sure  he  has  left  you  something.  You  are  his 
grandchild.  It  would  be  unkind  of  him  and  most  unjust 
to  leave  you  out  altogether,  once  having  acknowledged 
you." 

"You  forget  our  estrangement." 

"  Nevertheless,  something  tells  me  there  is  a  legacy  in 
atore  for  you.  I  shall  go  down  to-morrow  night,  and  you 
had  better  come  with  me." 

"  Very  well,"  says  Molly,  indifferently. 

At  Herst,  in  spite  of  howling  winds  and  drenching 
showers,  Nature  is  spreading  abroad  in  haste  its  countless 
charms.  Earth,  struggling  disdainfully  with  its  worn-out 
garb,  is  striving  to  change  its  brown  garment  for  one  of 
dazzling  green.  Violets,  primroses,  all  the  myriad  joys  of 
spring,  are  sweetening  the  air  with  a  thousand  perfumes. 

Within  the  house  everything  is  subdued  and  hushed,  as 
must  be  when  the  master  lies  low.  The  servants  walk  on 
tiptoe  ;  the  common  smile  is  checked ;  conversation  dwindles 
into  compressed  whispers,  as  though  they  fear  by  ordinary 
noise  to  bring  to  life  again  the  unloved  departed.  All  is 
gloom  and  insincere  melancholy. 

Cecil  and  Molly,  traveling  down  together,  find  Mrs. 
Darley,  minus  her  husband,  has  arrived  before  them.  She 
is  as  delicatelv  afflicted,  as  properly  distressed,  as  might  be 
expected  ;  indeed,  so  faithfully,  and  with  such  perfect  belief 
in  her  own  powers,  does  she  perform  the  pensive  rdle,  that 
•he  fails  not  to  create  real  admiration  in  the  hearts  of  her 
beholders.  Molly  is  especially  struck,  and  knows  some 
natural  regret  that  it  is  beyond  her  either  to  feel  or  look 
the  part. 


364  MOLLY  BAWN. 

Marcia,  tliinking  it  wisdom  to  keep  herself  invisible, 
maintains  a  strict  seclusion.  The  hour  of  her  triumph  ap- 
proaches ;  she  hardly  dares  let  others  see  the  irrepressible 
exultation  that  her  own  heart  knows. 

Philip  has  been  absent  since  the  morning  ;  so  Molly  and 
Lady  Stafford  dine  in  the  latter's  old  sitting-room  alone, 
and,  confessing  as  the  hours  grow  late  to  an  unmistakable 
dread  of  the  "uncanny/'  sleep  together,  with  a  view  to 
self-support. 


Aboul  one  o'clock  next  day  all  is  over.  Mr.  Amherst 
has  been  consigned  to  his  last  resting-place, — a  tomb  un- 
stained by  any  tears.  At  *hree  the  will  is  to  be  read. 

Coming  out  of  her  room  in  the  early  part  of  the  after- 
noon, Cecil  meets  unexpectedly  with  Mr.  Potts,  who  ia 
meandering  in  a  depressed  and  aimless  fashion  all  over  the 
house. 

"  You  here,  Plantagenet !  Why,  I  thought  you  married 
to  some  fascinating  damsel  in  the  Emerald  Isle,"  she  cannot 
help  saying  in  a  low  voice,  giving  him  her  hand.  She 
is  glad  to  see  his  ugly,  good-humored,  comical  face  in  the 
gloomy  house,  although  it  is  surmounted  by  his  offending 
Aair. 

"  So  I  was, — very  near  it,"  replies  he,  modestly,  in  the 
same  suppressed  whisper.  "You  never  knew  such  a  nar- 
row escape  as  I  had  :  they  were  determined  to  marry 
me " 

"  '  They  '  !  You  terrify  me.  How  many  of  them  ?  I  had 
no  idea  they  were  so  bad  as  that, — even  in  Ireland." 

"  Oh,  I  mean  the  girl  and  her  father.  It  was  as  near  a 
thing  as  possible ;  in  fact,  it  took  me  all  I  knew  to  get  out 
of  it." 

"I'm  not  surprised  at  that,"  says  Cecil,  with  a  short  but 
comprehensive  glance  at  her  companion's  cheerful  but  rather 
indistinct  features. 

"  I  don't  exactly  mean  it  was  my  personal  appearance 
was  the  attraction, "he  returns,  feeling  a  strong  inclination 
to  explode  with  laughter,  as  is  his  habit  on  all  occasions, 
but  quickly  suppressing  the  desire,  as  being  wicked  under 
the  circumstances.  The  horror  of  death  has  not  yet  van- 
ished from  among  them.  "It  was  my  family  they  were 
after, — birth,  yon  know, — and  that.  Fact  is, -she  wasn't  up 
to  the  mark, — wasn't  good  enough.  Not  but  that  she  was 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  365 

a  nice-looking  girl,  and  had  a  lovely  brogne.  She  had 
money  too— and  she  had  a — father  !  Such  a  father  I  I 
think  I  could  have  stood  the  brogue,  but  I  could  not  stand 
the  father." 

"But  why?  Was  he  a  lunatic?  Or  perhaps  a  Home- 
ruler  ?" 

"No," — simply,— "he  was  a  tailor.  When  first  I  met 
Miss  O'Eourke  she  told  me  her  paternal  relative  had  some 
appointment  in  the  Castle.  So  he  had.  In  his  youthful 
days  he  had  been  appointed  tailor  to  his  Excellency.  It 
wasn't  a  bad  appointment,  I  dare  say ;  but  I  confess  I 
didn't  see  it." 

"It  was  a  lucky  escape.  It  would  take  a  good  deal  of 
money  to  make  me  forget  the  broadcloth.  Are  you  coming 
down-stairs  now  ?  I  dare  say  we  ought  to  be  assembling. 

"It  is  rather  too  early,  I  am  afraid.  I  wish  it  was  all 
done  with,  and  I  a  hundred  miles  away  from  the  place. 
The  whole  affair  has  made  me  downright  melancholy.  I 
hate  funerals  :  they  don't  agree  with  me." 

"Nor  yet  weddings,  as  it  s«ems.  Well,  I  shall  be  as 
glad  as  you  to  quit  Herst  once  we  have  installed  Miss  Am- 
herst  as  its  mistress/' 

"  Why  not  Shad  well  as  its  master  ?  " 

"If  I  were  a  horrible  betting-man,"  says  Cecil,  "I 
should  put  all  my  money  upon  Marcia.  I  do  not  think 
Mr.  Amherst  cared  for  Philip.  However,  we  shall  see. 
And  " — in  a  yet  lower  tone — "  I  hope  he  has  not  altogether 
forgotten  Molly." 

"  I  hope  not  indeed.    But  he  was  a  strange  old  man.    To 

forget  Miss  Massereene "   Here  he  breathes  a  profound 

sigh. 

"Don't  sigh,  Plantagenet  :  think  of  Miss  O'Rourke," 
gays  Cecil,  unkindly,  leaving  him. 


One  by  one,  and  without  so  much  as  an  ordinary  "  How 
d'ye  do  ?  "  they  have  all  slipped  into  the  dining-room. 
The  men  have"  assumed  a  morose  air,  which  they  fondly 
believe  to  be  indicative  of  melancholy  ;  the  women,  being 
by  nature  more  hypocritical,  present  a  more  natural  and 
suitable  appearance.  All  are  seated  in  sombre  garments 
and  dead  silence. 

Marcia,  in  crape  and  silk  of  elaborate  design,  is  looking 


46«  MOLL  r  JBA  WN. 

calm  but  full  of  decorous  grief.  Philip — who  has  groirn 
almost  emaciated  during  these  past  months — is  the  only 
one  who  wears  successfully  an  impression  of  the  most 
stolid  indifference.  He  is  leaning  against  one  of  the  win- 
dows, gazing  out  upon  the  rich  lands  and  wooded  fields 
which  so  soon  will  be  either  all  his  or  nothing  to  him. 
After  the  first  swift  glance  of  recognition  he  has  taken  no 
notice  of  Molly,  nor  she  of  him.  A  shuddering  aversion 
fills  her  toward  htm,  a  distaste  bordering  on  horror.  His 
very  pallor,  the  ill-disguised  misery  of  his  whole  appear- 
ance,— which  he  seeks  but  vainly  to  conceal  under  a  cold 
and  sneering  exterior, — only  adds  to  her  dislike. 

A  sickening  remembrance  of  their  last  meeting  in  the 
wood  at  Brooklyn  makes  her  turn  away  from  him  with 
palpable  meaning  on  his  entrance,  adding  thereby  one 
pang  the  more  to  the  bitterness  of  his  regret.  The  meet- 
ing is  to  her  a  trial, — to  him  an  agony  harder  to  endur* 
than  he  had  even  imagined. 

Feeling  strangely  out  of  place  and  nervous,  and  gad- 
dened  by  memories  of  happy  days  spent  in  this  very  room 
so  short  a  time  ago,  Molly  has  taken  a  seat  a  little  apart 
from  the  rest,  and  sits  with  loosely-folded  handa  upon  her 
knees,  her  head  bent  slightly  downward. 

Cecil,  seeing  the  dejection  of  her  attitude,  leaves  her 
own  place,  and,  drawing  a  chair  close  to  here,  takes  one  ol 
her  hands  softly  between  her  own. 

Then  the  door  opens,  and  Mr.  Buscarlet,  with  a  suffi- 
ciently subdued  though  rather  triumphant  and  conse- 
quential air,  enters. 

He  bows  obsequiously  to  Marcia,  who  barely  returns  the 
salute.  Detestable  little  man  !  She  finds  some  consolation 
in  the  thought  that  at  all  events  his  time  is  nearly  over ; 
that  probably — nay,  surely — he  is  now  about  to  administer 
law  for  the  last  time  at  Herst. 

He  bows  in  silence  to  the  rest  of  the  company, — with 
marked  deference  to  Miss  Massereene, — and  then  involnn» 
tarily  each  one  stirs  in  his  or  her  seat  and  settles  down  to 
hear  the  will  read. 

A  will  is  a  mighty  thing,  and  require*  nice  handling. 
"Would  that  I  were  lawyer  enough  to  give  you  this  partic- 
ular one  in  full,  with  all  its  many  bequests  and  curioua 
directions.  But,  alas !  ignorance  forbids.  The  sense 
lingers  with  me.  but  all  the  technicalities  and 
phrases  and  idiotic  repetitions  have  escaped  me. 


MOLLY  BAWN.  3fi1 

To  most  of  those  present  Mr.  Amherst  has  left  bequests ; 
to  Lady  Stafford  five  thousand  pounds ;  to  Plantagenet 
Potts  two  thousand  pounds  ;  to  Mrs.  Barley's  son  the  same; 
to  all  the  servants  handsome  sums  of  money,  together  with 
*  year's  wages  ;  to  Mrs.  Nesbit,  the  housekeeper,  two  hun- 
dred pounds  a  year  for  her  life.  And  then  the  attorney 
pauses  and  assumes  an  important  air,  and  every  one  knows 
the  end  is  nigh. 

All  the  rest  of  his  property  of  which  he  died  possessed — 
all  the  houses,  lands,  and  moneys — all  personal  effects — 
"  I  give  and  bequeath  to " 

Here  Mr.  Buscarlet,  either  purposely  or  otherwise,  stops 
short  to  cough  and  blow  a  sonorous  note  upon  his  nose. 
All  eyes  are  fixed  upon  him  ;  some,  even  more  curious  or 
eager  than  the  others,  are  leaning  forward  in  their  chairs. 
Even  Philip  has  turned  from  the  window  and  is  waiting 
breathlessly. 

"  To  my  beloved  grandchild,  Eleanor  Massereene  ! " 

Not  a  sound  follows  this  announcement,  not  a  move- 
ment. Then  Marcia  half  rises  from  her  seat ;  and  Mr. 
Buscarlet,  putting  up  his  hand,  says,  hurriedly,  "  There 
is  a  codicil,"  and  every  one  prepares  once  more  to  listen. 

But  the  codicil  produces  small  effect.  The  old  man  at 
the  last  moment  evidently  relented  so  far  in  his  matchless 
severity  as  to  leave  Marcia  Amherst  ten  thousand  pounds 
(and  a  sealed  envelope,  which  Mr.  Buscarlet  hands  her), 
on  the  condition  that  she  lives  out  of  England ;  and  to 
Philip  Shadwell  ten  thousand  pounds  more, — and  another 
sealed  envelope, — which  the  attorney  also  delivers  on  the 
spot. 

As  the  reading  ceases,  another  silence,  even  more  pro- 
found than  the  first,  falls  upon  the  listeners.  No  one 
speaks,  no  one  so  much  as  glances  at  the  other. 

Marcia,  ghastly,  rigid,  rises  from  her  seat. 
'     "  It  is  false/'  she  says,  in  a  clear,  impassioned  tone.    "  It 
is  the  will  of  an  imbecile, — a  madman.     It  shall  not  be." 
She  has  lost  all  self-restraint,  and  is  trembling  with  fear 
and  rage  and  a  terrible  certainty  of  defeat. 

"  Pardon  me,  Miss  Amherst,"  says  Mr.  Buscarlet,  court- 
eously, "  but  I  fear  you  will  find  it  unwise  to  lay  any  stress 
on  such  a  thought.  To  dispute  this  will  would  be  madness 
indeed :  all  the  world  knows  my  old  friend,  your  grand- 
father,  died  in  perfect  possession  of  his  senses,  and  this 
will  was  signed  three  months  ago." 


368  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

"  You  drew  up  this  will,  sir  ?  "  she  asks  in  a  low  tone, 
only  intended  for  him,  drawing  closer  to  him. 

"  Certainly  I  did,  madam. " 

"  And  during  all  these  past  months  understood  thor- 
oughly how  matters  would  be  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  madam." 

"  And  knowing,  continued  still — with  a  view  to  deceive 
me — to  treat  me  as  the  future  mistress  of  Herst  ?  " 

"  I  trust,  madam,  I  always  treated  you  with  proper  re- 
'spect.  You  would  not  surely  have  had  me  as  rude  to  you 
as  you  invariably  were  to  me?  I  may  not  be  a  gentleman, 
Miss  Amherst,  in  your  acceptation  of  that  term,  but  I  make 
it  a  rule  never  to  be — offensive." 

"  It  was  a  low — a  mean  revenge,"  says  Marcia,  througk 
her  teeth,  her  eyes  aflame,  her  lips  colorless  ;  "  one  worthy 
of  you.  I  understand  you,  sir  ;  but  do  not  for  an  instant 
think  you  have  crushed  me."  Raising  her  head  haughtily, 
she  sweeps  past  him  back  to  her  original  seat. 

Molly  has  risen  to  her  feet.  She  is  very  pale  and  faint ; 
her  eyes,  large  and  terrified,  like  a  fawn's,  are  fixed,  oddly 
enough,  upon  Philip.  The  news  has  been  too  sudden,  too 
unexpected,  to  cause  her  even  the  smallest  joy  as  yet.  On 
the  contrary,  she  knows  only  pity  for  him  who,  but  a  few 
minutes  before,  she  was  reviling  in  her  thoughts.  Perhaps 
the  sweetness  of  her  sympathy  is  the  one  thing  that  could 
have  consoled  Philip  just  then. 

"'Farewell,  a  long  farewell  to  all  my  greatness,'"  he 
says,  with  a  little  sneering  laugh,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
Then,  rousing  himself,  he  draws  a  long  breath,  and  goes 
straight  up  to  Molly. 

"  Permit  me  to  congratulate  you,"  he  says,  with  wonder- 
ful grace,  considering  all  things.  He  is  standing  before  her, 
with  his  handsome  head  well  up,  a  certain  pride  of  birth 
about  him,  strong  enough  to  carry  him  successfully  through 
this  great  and  lasting  disaster.  "  It  is,  after  all,  only  nat- 
ural that  of  the  three  you  should  inherit.  Surprise  should 
lie  in  the  fact  that  never  did  such  a  possibility  occur  to  us. 
We  might  have  known  that  even  our  grandfather's  worn 
and  stony  heart  could  not  be  proof  against  such  grace  and 
sweetness  as  yours." 

He  bows  over  her  hand  courteously,  and,  turning  away, 
walks  back  again  to  the  window,  standing  with  his  face 
hidden  from  them  all. 

Never  has  he  appeared  to  Buch  advantage.     Never  has 


MOLL  y  BA  WN.  369 

he  been  so  thoroughly  liked  as  at  this  moment,  Molly 
moves  as  though  she  would  go  to  him  ;  but  Cecil,  laying 
her  hand  upon  her  arm,  wisely  restrains  her.  What  can 
be  said  to  comfort  him,  who  has  lost  home,  and  love,  and 
all? 

"  It  is  all  a  mistake  ;  it  cannot  be  true/'  says  Molly, 
piteously.  "It  is  a-mistake."  She  looks  appealingly  at 
Cecil,  who,  wise  woman  that  she  is,  only  presses  her  arm 
again  meaningly,  and  keeps  a  discreet  silence.  To  express 
her  joy  at  the  turn  events  have  taken  at  this  time  would  be 
gross  ;  though  not  to  express  it  goes  hard  with  Cecil.  She 
contents  herself  with  glancing  expressively  at  Sir  Penthony 
every  now  and  then,  who  is  standing  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room. 

"  I  also  congratulate  you,"  says  Luttrell,  coming  forward, 
and  speaking  for  the  first  time.  He  is  not  nearly  so  com- 
posed as  Shadwell,  and  his  voice  has  a  strange  and  stilted 
sound.  He  speaks  so  that  Molly  and  Cecil  alone  can  hear 
him,  delicacy  forbidding  any  open  expression  of  pleasure. 
"  With  all  my  heart/'  he  adds  ;  but  his  tone  is  strange. 
The  whole  speech  is  evidently  a  lie.  His  eyes  meet  hers 
with  an  expression  in  them  she  has  never  seen  there  before, 
— bo  carefully  cold  it  is,  so  studiously  unloving. 

Molly  is  too  agitated  to  speak  to  him,  but  she  lifts  her 
head,  and  shows  him  a  face  full  of  the  keenest  reproach. 
Her  pleading  look,  however,  is  thrown  away,  as  he  refuses 
resolutely  to  meet  her  gaze.  With  an  abrupt  movement  he 
turns  away  and  leaves  the  room,  and,  as  they  afterward 
discover,  the  house. 

Meantime,  Marcia  has  torn  open  her  envelope,  and  read 
its  enclosure.  A  blotted  sheet  half  covered  with  her  own 
writing, — the  very  letter  begun  and  lost  in  the  library  last 
October ;  that,  being  found,  has  condemned  her.  With  a 
half-stifled  groan  she  lets  it  flutter  to  the  ground,  where  it 
lies  humbled  in  the  dust,  an  emblem  of  all  her  falsely- 
cherished  hopes. 

Philip,  too,  having  examined  his  packet,  has  brought  to 
light  that  fatal  letter  of  last  summer  that  has  so  fully  con- 
victed him  of  unlawful  dealings  with  Jews.  Twice  he  reads 
it,  slowly,  thoughtfully,  and  then,  casting  one  quick,  wither- 
ing glance  at  Marcia  (under  which  she  cowers),  he  consigns 
it  to  his  pocket  without  a  word. 

The  play  is  played  out.  The  new  mistress  of  Herat 
ii&6  been  carried  away  by  Cecil  Stafford  to  her  own  room  j. 


$70  MOLL  Y  £A  WN. 

{•-lie  others  have  dispersed.     Philip  and  Marcia  Amixerst 


M'arcia,  waking  from  her  reverie,  makes  a  movement  as 
though  she,  too,  would  quit  the  apartment,  but  Shadwell, 
coming  deliberately  up  to  her,  bars  her  exit.  Laying  his 
hand  gently  but  firmly  on  her  wrist,  he  compels  her  to  ooth 
hear  and  remain.  • 

"You  betrayed  me?"  he  says,  between  his  teeth. 
'  You  gave  this  letter"  —  producing  it  —  "  to  my  grand- 
father ?  I  trusted  you,  and  you  betrayed  me." 

"  I  did,"  she  answers,  with  forced  calmness. 

"Why?" 

"  Because  —  I  loved  you." 

"  You  !  "  with  a  harsh  grating  laugh.  It  is  with  diffi- 
culty he  restrains  his  passion.  "You  to  love  !  And  is  it 
by  ruining  those  upon  whom  you  bestow  your  priceless 
affection  you  show  the  depth  of  your  devotion  r  Pah  ! 
Tell  me  the  truth.  Did  you  want  all,  and  have  you  been 
justly  punished  ?  " 

"  I  have  told  you  the  truth/'  she  answers,  vehemently. 
"I  was  mad  enough  to  love  you  even  then,  when  I  saw 
against  my  will  your  wild  infatuation  for  that  design- 
ing  -  »  " 

"  Hush  I  "  he  interrupts  her,  imperiously,  in  a  low,  dan- 
gerous tone.  "  If  you  are  speaking  of  Miss  Massereene,  I 
warn  you  it  is  unsafe  to  proceed.  Do  not  mention  her. 
Do  not  utter  her  name.  I  forbid  you." 

"  So  be  it  !  Your  punishment  has  been  heavier  than 
any  I  could  inflict.  —  You  want  to  know  why  I  showed  that 
letter  to  the  old  man,  and  I  will  tell  you.  I  thought,  could 
I  but  gain  all  Herst,  I  might,  through  it,  win  you  back  to 
my  side.  I  betrayed  you  for  that  alone.  I  debased  my- 
self in  my  own  eyes  for  that  sole  purpose.  I  have  failed  in 
all  things.  My  humiliation  is  complete.  I  do  not  ask  your 
forgiveness,  Philip;  I  crave  only  —  your  forbearance.  Grant 
me  that  at  least,  lor  the  old  days'  sake  !  " 

But  he  will  not.  He  scarcely  heeds  her  words,  so  great 
is  the  fury  that  consumes  him. 

"  You  would  have  bought  my  love  !  *  he  says,  with  a 
bitter  sneer.  "  Know,  then,  that  with  a  dozen  Hersts  at 
your  back,  I  loathe  you  too  much  ever  to  be  more  to  you 
than  I  now  am,  and  that  is  —  nothing." 

Quietly  but  forcibly  he  puts  her  from  him,  and  leaves  the 
room.  Outside  in  the  hall  he  encounters  Sir  Penthony, 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  <J?J 

trho  has  been  angering  there  with  intent  to  waylay  him. 
However  rejoiced  Stafford  may  be  at  Molly's  luck,  he  it 
profoundly  grieved  for  Philip. 

"  I  know  it  is  scarcely  form  to  express  sympathy  on  such 
occasions/'  he  says,  with  some  hesitation,  laying  his  hand 
on  Shad  well's  shoulder.  "  But  I  must  tell  you  how  I  regret, 
for  your  sake,  all  that*  has  taken  place." 

"Thank  you,  Stafford.  You  are  one  of  the  very  few 
whose  sympathy  is  never  oppressive.  But  do  not  be  uneasy 
about  me,"  with  a  short  laugh.  "  I  dare  say  I  shall  manage 
to  exist.  I  have  five  hundred  a  year  of  my  own,  and  my 
grandfather's  thoughtfulness  has  made  it  a  thousand.  No 
doubt  I  shall  keep  body  and  soul  together,  though  there  is 
no  disguising  the  fact  that  I  feel  keenly  the  difference  be* 
jween  one  thousand  and  twenty." 

"My  dear  fellow,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  take  it  so  well. 
I  don't  believe  there  are  a  dozen  men  of  my  acquaintance 
who  would  be  capable  of  showing  such  pluck  as  you  have 
done." 

"I  have  ah"; "ay s  had  a  fancy  for  exploring.  I  shall  go 
abroad  and  see  some  life  ;  the  sooner  the  better.  I  thank 
you  with  all  my  heart,  Stafford,  for  your  kindness.  I 
thank  you — and" — with  a  slight  break  in  his  voice— 
"good-bye!" 

He  presses  Stafford's  hand  warmly,  and,  before  the  other 
can  reply,  is  gone. 

Hall  an  hour  later,  Marcia,  sweeping  into  her  room  in  a 
torrent  of  passion  impossible  to  quell,  summons  her  maid 
by  a  violent  attack  on  her  bell. 

"  Take  off  this  detested  mourning,"  she  says  to  the  as- 
tonished girl.  "  Remove  it  from  my  sight.  And  get  me 
•A  colored  gown  and  a  Bradshaw." 

The  maid,  half  frightened,  obeys,  and  that  night  Marcia 
Amherst  quits  her  English  home  forever. 


378  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

**  Fare  thee  well !  and  if  forever, 
Still  forever,  fare  tfcee  well  I  " — BYROK. 

"  OH,  Cecil !  now  I  can  marry  Tedcastle,"  says  Molly, 
at  the  end  of  a  long  and  exhaustive  conversation  that  has 
taken  place  in  her  own  room.  She  blushes  a  little  as 
she  says  it ;  but  it  is  honestly  her  first  thought,  and  she 

fives  utterance  to  it.  "  Letitia,  too,  and  the  children, — 
can  provide  for  them.  I  shall  buy  back  dear  old 
Brooklyn,  and  give  it  to  them,  and  they  shall  be  happy 
jmce  more." 

"I  agree  with  Lord  Byron,"  says  Cecil,  laughing. 
*' Money  makes  the  man;  the  want  of  it,  his  fellow.' 
You  ought  to  feel  like  some  princess  out  of  the  Arabian 
Nights'  Entertainments." 

"  I  feel  much  more  like  an  intruder.  What  right  have 
I  to  Herst  ?  What  shall  I  do  with  so  much  money  ?  " 

"  Spend  it.  There  is  nothing  simpler.  Believe  me,  no 
one  was  ever  in  reality  embarrassed  by  her  riches,  notwith- 
standing all  they  say.  The  whole  thing  is  marvelous. 
Who  could  have  anticipated  such  an  event  ?  I  am  sorry  I 
ever  said  anything  disparaging  of  that  dear,  delightful, 
genial,  kind-hearted,  sociable,  generous  old  gentleman, 
your  grandfather." 

"  Don't  jest,"  says  Molly,  who  is  almost  hysterical.  "  I 
feel  more  like  crying  yet.  But  I  am  glad  at  least  to  know 
he  forgave  me  before  he  died.  Poor  grandpapa  !  Cecil,  I 
want  ao  much  to  see  Letitia." 

' '  Of  course,  dear.  Well," — consulting  her  watch, — "  I 
believe  we  may  as  well  be  getting  ready  if  we  mean  to 
catch  the  next  train.  Will  not  it  be  a  charming  surprise 
for  Letitia  ?  I  quite  envy  you  the  telling  of  it." 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  it.  I  am  so  nervous  I  know  1 
snail  never  get  through  it  without  frightening  her  out  of 
her  wits.  Do  come  with  me,  Cecil,  and  break  the  news 
yourself." 

"  Nothing  I  should  lite  better,"  says  Cecil.  "  Put  on 
your  bonnet  and  let  us  be  off." 

Einging  the  bell,  she  orders  round  the  carriage,   and 


tfOLL  Y  BA  WN.  373 

presently  she  and  Molly  are  wending  their  way  down  the 
stairs. 

At  the  very  end  of  the  long,  beautiful  old  hall,  stands 
Philip  Shad  well,  taking,  it  may  be,  a  last  look  from  the 
window,  of  the  place  so  long  regarded  as  his  own. 

As  they  see  him,  both  girls  pause,  and  Molly's  lips  lose 
something  of  their  fresh,  warm  color. 

"  Go  and  speak  to  him  now,"  says  Cecil,  and,  consider- 
ately remembering  a  hypothetical  handkerchief,  retraces 
her  steps  to  the  room  she  had  just  quitted. 

"  Philip  ! "  says  Molly,  timidly,  going  up  to  him. 

He  turns  with  a  start,  and  colors  a  dark  red  on  seeing 
her,  but  neither  moves  nor  offers  greeting. 

"  Oh,  Philip  !  let  me  do  something  for  you,"  says  Molly 
impulsively,  without  preparation,  and  with  tears  in  her 
eyes.  "I  have  robbed  you,  though  unwittingly.  Let  me 
make  amends.  Out  of  all  I  have  let  me  give  you " 

"  The  only  thing  I  would  take  from  you  it  is  out  of  your 
power  to  give,"  he  interrupts  her,  gently. 

"  Do  not  say  so,"  she  pleads,  in  trembling  tones.  "I  do 
not  want  all  the  money.  I  cannot  spend  it.  I  do  not  care 
for  it.  Do  take  some  of  it,  Philip.  Let  me  share '' 

"  Impossible,  child  ! "  with  a  faint  smile.  "  You  don't 
know  what  you  are  saying."  Then,  with  an  effort,  "You 
are  going  to  marry  Luttrell  ?  " 

"  Yes," — blushing,  until  she  looks  like  a  pale,  sweet  rose 
with  a  drooping  head. 

"  How  rich  to  overflowing  are  some,  whilst  others 
starve ! "  he  says,  bitterly,  gazing  at  her  miserably,  filling 
his  heart,  his  senses,  for  the  last  time,  with  a  view  of  her 
soft  and  perfect  loveliness.  Then,  in  a  kinder  tone,  "1 
hope  you  will  be  happy,  and  " — slowly — "  he  too,  though 
that  is  a  foregone  conclusion."  He  pales  a  little  here, 
and  stops  as  though  half  choking.  "Yes,  he  has  my  best 
wishes, — for  your  sake,"  he  goes  on,  unsteadily.  "  Tell 
him  so  from  me,  though  we  hare  not  been  good  friend* 
of  late." 

"  I  will  surely  tell  him." 

"  Good-bye  ! >J>  he  says,  taking  her  hand.  Something  in 
his  expression  makes  her  exclaim,  anxiously  : 

"  For  the  present  ?  " 

"  No ;  forever.  Herst  and  England  have  grown  hata- 
f  al  to  me.  I  leave  them  M  soon  M  poaeible.  Good-bye, 
»y  boloved  ! "  he  whispers,  in  deep  agitation.  "  I  onjj 


374  MOLL  Y  'BA 

ask  you  not  to  quite  forget  me,  though  I  hope — / kopt — 1 
shall  never  look  upon  your  sweet  facw  again. 

So  he  goes,  leaving  his  heart  behind  him,  carrying  with 
him  evermore,  by  land  and  sea,  this  only, — the  vision  of 
her  he  loves  as  last  he  sees  her,  weeping  sad  and  bitter  tears 
for  him. 


A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  as  Molly  and  Cecil  are  step- 
ping into  the  carriage  meant  to  convey  them  to  the  station, 
one  of  the  servants,  running  up  hurriedly,  hands  Miss 
Massereene  a  letter. 

"  Another  ?  "  says  Cecil,  jestingly,  as  the  carriage  starts. 
"  Sealed  envelopes,  like  private  bomb-shells,  seem  to  be  the 
order  of  the  day.  I  do  hope  this  one  does  not  emanate 
from  your  grandfather,  desiring  you  to  refund  every- 
thing. » 

"It  is  from  Tedcastle,"  says  Molly,  surprised.  Then 
she  opens  it,  and  reads  as  follows  : 

"  Taking  into  consideration  the  enormous  change  tha* 
has  occurred  in  your  fortunes  since  this  morning,  I  feel  it 
only  just  to  you  and  myself  to  write  and  absolve  you  from 
all  ties  by  which  you  may  fancy  yourself  still  connected 
with  me.  You  will  remember  that  in  our  last  conversation 
together  in  London  you  yourself  voluntarily  decided  on 
severing  our  engagement.  Let  your  decision  now  stand. 
Begin  your  new  life  without  hampering  regrets,  without 
remorseful  thoughts  of  me.  To  you  I  hope  this  money 
may  bring  happiness  ;  to  me,  through  you,  it  has  brought 
lasting  pain  ;  and  when,  a  few  minutes  ago,  I  said  I  con- 
gratulated you  from  my  heart,  I  spoke  falsely.  I  say  this 
only  to  justify  my  last  act  in  your  eyes.  I  will  not  tell  you 
what  it  costs  me  to  write  you  this  ;  you  know  me  well  enough 
to  understand.  I  shall  exchange  with  a  friend  of  mine, 
and  sail  for  India  in  a  week  or  two,  or  at  least  as  soon  as  I 
can  ;  but  wherever  I  am,  or  whatever  further  misfortunes 
may  be  in  store  for  me,  be  assured  your  memory  will  always 
be  my  greatest — possibly  my  only — treasure." 

"  What  can  he  mean  ?  "  says  Molly,  looking  up.  She 
doe*  not  appear  grieved  ;  she  is  simply  indignant.  An 
angry  crimson  flamee  on  her  fair  cheeks. 

"Quixotism  \"  says  Cecil,  when  she,  too,  has  read  th? 
letter.  "  Was  there  ever  such  a  silly  boy  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  it  is  worse  than  anything, — so  cold,  so  terse,  avi 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  375 

stupid.     And  not  an  affectionate  word  all  through,  or  a 
single  regret. " 

"  My  dear  child,  that  is  its  only  redeeming  point.  He  ia 
evidently  sincere  in  his  desire  for  martyrdom.  Had  he 
gone  into  heroics  I  should  myself  have  gone  to  Ireland 
(where  I  suppose  he  soon  must  be)  to  chastise  him.  But 

as  it  is Poor  Tedcastle  !    He  looks  upon  it  as  a  point 

of  honor. " 

"It  is  unbearable/'  says  Molly,  angrily.  "Does  he 
think  such  a  paltry  thing  as  money  could  interfere  with 
my  affection  for  him  ?  " 

"  Molly,  beware  !  You  are  bordering  on  the  heroics 
now.  Money  is  not  a  paltry  thing ;  it  is  about  the  best 
thing  going.  /  can  sympathize  with  Tedcastle  if  you  can- 
not. He  felt  he  had  no  right  to  claim  the  promise  of  such 
a  transcendently  beautiful  being  as  you,  now  you  have 
added  to  your  other  charms  twenty  thousand  a  year.  He 
thinks  of  your  future  ;  he  acknowledges  you  a  bride  worthy 
any  duke  in  the  land  (men  in  love" — maliciously — "will 
dote,  you  know) ;  he  thinks  of  the  world  and  its  opinion, 
and  how  fond  they  are  of  applying  the  word  '  fortune- 
hunter'  when  they  get  the  chance,  and  it  is  not  a  pretty 
sobriquet." 

"  He  should  have  thought  of  nothing  but  me.  Had  he 
come  into  a  fortune,"  says  Molly,  severely,  "  I  should  have 
been  delighted,  and  I  should  have  married  him  instantly." 

"  Quite  so.  But  who  ever  heard  the  opprobrious  term 
' fortune-hunter'  given  to  a  woman?  It  is  the  legitimate 
thing  for  us  to  sell  ourselves  as  dearly  as  we  can." 

"But,  Cecil," — forlornly, — "  what  am  I  to  do  now?" 

"  If  you  will  take  my  advice,  nothing, — for  two  or  three 
weeks.  He  cannot  sail  for  India  before  then,  and  do  his 
best.  Preserve  an  offended  silence.  Then  obtain  an  inter- 
view with  him  by  fair  means,  or,  if  not,  by  foul." 

"You  unscrupulous  creature!"  Molly  says,  smiling  ; 
but  after  a  little  reflection  she  determines  to  abide  by  her 
friend's  counsel.  "Horrible,  hateful  letter,"  she  says, 
tearing  it  up  and  throwing  it  out  of  the  window, 
wish  I  had  never  read  you.  I  am  happier  now  you  are 
gone." 

"So  am  I.  It  was  villainously  worded  and  very  badly 
written." 

"I  don't  know  that,"  begins  Molly,  warmly;  and  then 
she  stops  short,  and  they  both  laugh.  "  And  you,  Cecil— 


376  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

what  of  you  ?  Am  I  mistaken  in  thinking  you  and  Su 
Penthony  are — are " 

"Yes,  we  are,"  says  Cecil,  smiling  and  coloring  brill- 
iantly. "As  you  so  graphically  express  it,  we  actually — 
#re.  At  present,  like  you,  we  are  formally  engaged." 

"  Keally  ? " — delighted.  "  I  always  knew  you  loved 
him.  And  so  you  have  given  in  at  last  ?  " 

"  Through  sheer  exhaustion,  and  merely  with  a  view  to 
•stop  further  persecution.  When  a  man  comes  to  you  day 
after  day,  asking  you  whether  you  love  him  yet,  ten  to  one 
you  say  yes  in  the  end,  whether  it  be  the  truth  or  not.  We 
all  know  what  patience  and  perseverance  can  do.  But  I 
desire  you,  Molly,  never  to  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  I  am 
consenting  to  be  his  only  to  escape  his  importunities." 

"  I  quite  understand.    But,  dear  Cecil,  I  am  so  rejoiced." 

"Are  you,  dear  ?" — provokingly.  "And  why  ? — I  thought 
to  have  a  second  marriage,  if  only  for  the  appearance  of 
the  thing  ;  but  it  seems  I  cannot.  So  we  are  going  to 
Kamtschatka,  or  Bath,  or  Timbuctoo,  or  Hong-Kong,  or 
Halifax,  for  our  wedding  tour,  I  really  don't  know  which, 
and  I  would  not  presume  to  dictate.  That  is,  if  I  do  not 
change  my  mind  between  that  and  this." 

"And  when  is  that?" 

"The  seventeenth  of  next  month.  He  wanted  to  make 
it  the  first  of  April ;  but  I  said  I  was  committing  folly 
enough  without  reminding  all  the  world  of  it.  So  he 
succumbed.  I  wish,  Molly,  you  could  be  married  on  the 
same  day." 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  a  lover  who  refuses  to  takt 
me  ?  "  says  Molly,  with  a  rueful  laugh.  "  I  dare  say  I  shall 
be  an  old  maid  after  all." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIH. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  love  my  love? 

Why  shouldn't  he  love  me? 
Why  shouldn't  I  love  ray  love, 
Since  love  to  all  is  free?" 

THREE  full  weeks  that,  so  far  as  Molly  is  concerned, 
have  been  terribly,  wearisomely  long,  have  dragged  to  their 
close.  Not  that  they  have  been  spent  in  idleness ;  inuda 


MOLLY  BAWN.  37? 

business  has  been  transacted,  many  plans  fulfilled ;  bnt  they 
have  been  barren  of  news  of  her  lover. 

"  In  the  spring  a  young  man's  fancies  lightly  turn  to 
thoughts  of  love  ; "  but  his  thoughts  seem  far  removed  from 
such  tender  dalliance. 

She  knows,  through  Cecil,  of  his  being  in  Ireland  with 
his  regiment  for  the  first  two  of  those  interminable  weeks, 
and  of  his  appearance  in  London  during  the  third,  where 
he  was  seeking  an  exchange  into  some  regiment  ordered  on 
foreign  service ;  but  whether  he  has  or  has  not  been  suc- 
cessful in  his  search  she  is  supremely  ignorant. 

Brooklyn,  her  dear  old  home,  having  been  discovered 
on  her  grandfather's  death  to  be  still  in  the  market,  has 
been  bought  back  for  her  by  Mr.  Buscarlet,  and  here 
Letitia — with  her  children  and  Molly — feels  happier  and 
more  contented  than  she  could  ever  have  believed  to  be 
again  possible. 

Seated  at  breakfast,  watched  over  by  the  faithful  Sarah, 
without  apparent  cause  for  uneasiness,  there  is,  nevertheless, 
an  air  of  uncertainty  and  expectation  about  Mrs.  Massereeno 
and  her  sister  that  makes  itself  known  even  to  their  attend- 
ant on  this  particular  morning  in  early  April  of  which  I 
write. 

In  vain  does  Sarah,  with  a  suppressed  attempt  at  coax- 
ng,  place  the  various  dishes  under  Miss  Massereene's  eyes. 
They  are  accepted,  lingeringly,  daintily,  bnt  are  not  eaten. 
The  children,  indeed,  voracious  as  their  kind,  come  nobly 
to  the  rescue,  and  by  a  kindly  barter  of  their  plates  for 
Molly's,  which  leaves  them  an  undivided  profit,  contrive  to 
clear  the  table. 

Presently,  Molly  having  refused  languidly  some  delicate 
steaming  cakes  of  Sarah's  own  making,  that  damsel  leaves 
the  room  in  high  dudgeon,  and  Molly  leans  back  in  her 
chair. 

"Tell  me  again,  Letty,  what  you  wrote  to  him,"  she 
says,  letting  her  eyes  wander  through  the  window,  all  down 
the  avenue,  up  which  the  postman  must  come,  "  word  for 
word." 

"Just  exactly  what  you  desired  me,  dear/'  replies 
Letitia,  seriously.  "  I  said  I  should  like  to  see  him  once 
again  for  the  olcl  days'  sake,  before  he  left  England,  which 
I  heard  he  was  on  the  point  of  doing.  And  I  also  told  him, 
to  please  you," — smiling, — "what  was  an  undeniable  lie, — 
that,  but  for  the  children,  I  was  here  alone/' 


878  MOLLY  BAWN. 

"  Quite  right,"  says  Miss  Maesereene,  unblushingly, 
Then,  with  considerable  impatience,  "  Will  that  postman 
never  come  ?  " 

All  country  posts  are  irregular,  and  this  one  is  not  a 
pleasant  exception.  To-day,  to  create  aggravation,  it  is  at 
least  one  good  half -hour  later  than  usual.  When  at  length, 
however,  it  does  come,  it  brings  the  expected  letter  from 
Luttrell. 

' '  Open  it  quickly, — quickly,  Letty,"  says  her  sister,  and 
Letitia  hastens  and  reads  it  with  much  solemnity. 

It  is  short  and  rather  reckless  in  tone.  It  tells  them  the 
writer,  having  effected  the  desired  exchange,  hopes  to  start 
for  India  in  two  weeks  at  furthest,  and  that,  as  he  had 
never  at  any  time  contemplated  leaving  England  without 
bidding  Mrs.  Massereene  good-bye,  he  would  seize  the  op- 
portunity— she  being  now  alone,  (heavily  dashed) — to  run 
down  to  Brooklyn  to  see  her  this  very  day. 

"  Oh,  Letty !  to-day ! "  exclaims  Molly,  paling  and 
flushing,  and  paling  again.  "  How  I  wish  it  was  to- 
morrow ! " 

"  Could  there  be  any  one  more  inconsistent  than  you, 
my  dear  Molly  ?  You  have  been  praying  for  three  whole 
weeks  to  see  him,  and  now  your  prayer  is  answered  you 
look  absolutely  miserable/' 

"It  is  so  sudden,"  says  poor  Molly.  "And — he  never 
mentioned  my  name.  What  if  he  refuses  to  have  anything 
to  say  to  me  even  now  ?  What  shall  I  do  then  ?  " 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear  !  When  once  he  sees  you,  he  will 
forget  all  his  ridiculous  pride,  and  throw  himself,  like  a 
sensible  man,  at  your  feet." 

"  I  wish  I  could  think  so.  Letty," — tearfully,  and  in  a 
distinctly  wheedling  tone, — "  wouldn't  you  speak  to  him  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  would  not,"  says  Letitia,  indignantly.  "  What, 
after  writing  that  lie  !  No,  you  must  of  course  see  him 
yourself.  And,  indeed,  my  dear  child," — laughing, — "you 
have  only  to  meet  him,  wearing  the  lugubrious  expression 
you  at  present  exhibit,  to  melt  his  heart,  were  it  the  stoniest 
one  in  Europe.  See," — drawing  her  to  a  mirror, — "  was 
there  ever  such  a  Dolores  ?  " 

Seeing  her  own  forlorn  visage,  Molly  instantly  laughs, 
thereby  ruining  forever  the  dismal  look  of  it  that  might 
have  stood  her  in  such  good  stead. 

"  I  suppose  he  will  dine,"  says  Letitia,  thoughtfully, 
"I  must  go  speak  to  cook." 


MOLL  Y  BA  WK.  379 

"  Perhaps  he  will  take  the  very  first  train  back  to  Lon- 
don,'' says  Molly,  still  gloomy. 

"  Perhaps  so.  Still,  we  must  be  prepared  for  the  worst," 
•wickedly.  "  Therefore,  cook  and  I  must  consult.  Molly," 
— pausing  at  the  door, — "you  have  exactly  four  hours" in 
which  to  make  yourself  beautiful,  as  he  cannot  possibly  be 
here  before  two.  And  if  in  that  time  you  cannot  create  & 
costume  calculated  to  reduce  him  to  slavery,  I  shall  lose 
my  good  opinion  of  you.  By  the  bye,  Molly/'— earnestly, 
and  with  something  akin  to  anxiety, — "  do  you  think  he 
likes  meringues  ?  " 

"  How  can  you  be  so  foolish  ?  "  says  Miss  Maseereene,  re- 
provingly. "  Of  course  if  he  dines  he  will  be  in  the  humor 
to  like  anything  I  like,  and  I  love  meringues.  But  if  not. 
— if  not,* — with  a  heavy  sigh,— "you  can  eat  all  thr 
meringues  yourself/' 

" Dear,  dear  \"  says  Letitia.     "  She  is  really  very  bad." 

Almost  as  the  clock  strikes  two,  Molly  enters  the  orchard, 
having  given  strict  orders  to  Sarah  to  send  Mr.  Luttrell 
there  when  he  arrives,  in  search  of  Mrs.  Massereene. 

She  has  dressed  herself  with  great  care,  and  very  becom- 
ingly, being  one  of  those  people  who  know  instantly,  by  in- 
stinct, the  exact  shade  and  style  that  suits  them.  Besides 
which,  she  has  too  much  good  taste  and  too  much  good 
sense  to  be  a  slave  to  that  tyrant,  Fashion. 

Here  and  there  the  fruit-trees  are  throwing  out  tender 
buds,  that  glance  half  shrinkingly  upon  the  world,  and  show 
a  desire  to  nestle  again  amidst  their  leaves,  full  of  a  regret 
that  they  have  left  so  soon  their  wiser  sisters. 

There  is  a  wonderful  sweetness  in  the  air, — a  freshness 
indescribable, — a  rare  spring  perfume.  Myriad  violets 
gleam  up  at  her,  white  and  purple,  from  the  roots  of  apple- 
trees,  inviting  her  to  gather  them.  But  she  heeds  them 
not :  they  might  as  well  be  stinging-nettles,  for  all  the  notice 
she  bestows  upon  them.  Or  is  it  that  the  unutterable  hope 
in  her  own  heart  overpowers  their  sweetness  ? 

All  her  thoughts  are  centred  on  the  impending  interview. 
How  if  she  shall  fail  after  all  ?  What  then  ?  Her  heart 
sinks  within  her,  her  hands  grow  cold  with  fear.  On  the 
instant  the  blackness  of  her  life  in  such  a  case  spreads  itself 
out  before  her  like  a  map, — the  lonely  pilgrimage, — the  un- 
lovely journey,  without  companionship,  or  warmth,  01 
pleasant  sunshine. 

Then  she  hears  the  click  of  the  garden  gate,  and  the 


380  MOLL  Y  BA  WN. 

firm,  quick  step  of  him  who  comes  to  her  up  the  hilly  path 
between  the  strawberry-beds. 

Drawing  a  deep  breath,  she  shrinks  within  the  shelter 
of  a  friendly  laurel  until  he  is  close  to  her  ;  then,  stepping 
from  her  hiding-place,  she  advances  toward  him. 

As  she  does  so,  as  she  meets  him  face  to  face,  all  her 
nervousness,  all  her  inward  trembling,  vanishes,  and  she 
declares  to  herself  that  victory  shall  lie  with  her. 

He  has  grown  decidedly  thinner.  Around  his  beautiful 
mouth  a  line  of  sadness  has  fallen,  not  to  be  concealed  even 
by  his  drooping  moustache.  He  looks  five  years  older.  His 
hlue  eyes,  too,  have  lost  their  laughter,  and  are  full  of  a 
'settled  melancholy.  Altogether,  he  presents  such  an  ap- 
pearance as  should  make  the  woman  who  loves  him  rejoice, 
provided  she  knows  the  cause. 

When  he  sees  her  he  stops  short  and  grows  extremely 
pale. 

"You  here  !"  he  says,  in  tones  of  displeased  surprise. 
"'I  understood  from  Mrs.  Massereene  you  were  at  Herat. 
Had  I  known  the  truth,  I  should  not  have  come." 

"  I  knew  that  ;  and  the  lie  was  mine, — not  Letitia's.  >. 
made  her  write  it  because  I  was  determined  to  see  you 
again.  How  do  you  do,  Teddy  ? "  says  Miss  Massereene, 
coming  up  to  him,  smiling  saucily,  although  a  little  trem- 
ulously. "  Will  you  not  even  shake  hands  with  me  ?  " 

He  takes  her  hand,  presses  it  coldly,  and  drops  it  again 
almost  instantly. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well/'  he  says,  gravely, 
perhaps  reproachfully. 

"I  am  sorry  to  see  you  looking  so  ill,"  replies  she, 
softly,  and  then  begins  to  wonder  what  on  earth  she  shall 
say  next. 

Mr.  Luttrell,  with  his  cane,  takes  the  heads  off  two  un- 
offending crocuses  that,  most  unwisely,  have  started 
up  within  his  reach.  He  is  the  gentlest-natured  fellow 
alive,  but  he  feels  a  vicious  pleasure  in  the  decapitation 
of  those  yellow,  harmless  flowers.  His  eyes  are  on  the 
ground.  He  is  evidently  bent  on  silence.  On  such  oc- 
casions what  is  there  that  can  be  matched  in  stupidity 
with  a  man  ? 

"  I  got  your  letter,"  Molly  says,  awkwardly,  when  the 
silence  has  gone  past  bearing. 

"I  know." 

"  I  did  not  answer  it." 


MOLL  Y  BA  WK.  181 

"  I  know  that  too,"  with  some  faint  bitterness. 

"  It  was  too  foolish  a  letter  to  answer, "returns  she,  has- 
tily, detecting  the  drop  of  acid  in  his  tone.  "  And,  even  il 
I  had  written  then,  I  should  only  have  said  some  harsh 
things  that  might  have  hurt  you.  I  think  I  was  wise  in 
keeping  silence." 

"  You  were.  But  I  cannot  see  how  you  have  followed 
up  your  wisdom  by  having  me  here  to-day." 

There  is  a  little  pause,  and,  then: 

"  1  wanted  so  much  to  see  you,"  murmurs  she,  in  the 
wftest,  sweetest  of  voices. 

He  winces,  and  shifts  his  position  uneasily,  but  steadily 
refuses  to  meet  her  beseeching  eyes.  He  visits  two  more 
unhappy  crocuses  with  capital  punishment,  and  something 
that  is  almost  a  sigh  escapes  him  ;  but  he  will  not  look  up, 
and  he  will  not  trust  himself  to  answer  her. 

" Have  you  grown  cruel,  Teddy?"  goes  on  Molly,  in  a 
carefully  modulated  tone.  "You  are  killing  those  poor 
crocuses  that  have  done  you  no  harm.  And  you  are  kill- 
ing me  too,  and  what  harm  have  /  done  you  ?  Just  as  I 
began  to  see  some  chance  of  happiness  before  us,  you  ran 
away  (you  a  soldier,  to  show  the  white  feather  !),  and 
thereby  ruined  all  the  enjoyment  I  might  have  known  in 
nay  good  fortune.  Was  that  kind  ?  " 

"I  meant  to  be  kind,  Molly ;  I  am  kind,"  replies  he 
huskily. 

"  Very  cruel  kindness,  it  seems  to  me." 

"  Later  on  you  will  not  think  so." 

"  It  strikes  me,  Teddy,"  says  Miss  Massereene,  reprov- 
ingly, "you  are  angry  because  poor  grandpapa  chose  to 
leave  me  Herst." 

"  Angry  ?     Why  should  I  be  angry  ?  " 

"  Well,  then,  why  don't  you  say  you  are  glad  ?" 

"  Because  I  am  not  glad." 

"And  why  ?  For  months  and  months  we  were  almost 
crying  for  money,  and  when,  by  some  most  fortunate  and 
unlooked-for  chance,  it  fell  to  my  lot,  you  behaved  as 
though  some  overpowering  calamity  had  befallen  you. 
Why  should  not  you  be  as  glad  of  it  as  I  am  ?" 

"Don't  speak  like  that,  Molly,"  says  Luttrell,  with  a 
groan.  "  You  know  all  is  over  between  us.  The  last  time 
we  met  in  London  you  yourself  broke  our  engagement,  and 
now  do  you  think  I  shall  suffer  you  to  renew  it  ?  I  am 
aot  so  selfish  as  you  imagine.  I  am  no  match  for  you 


382  MOLLY  BAWN. 

now.  You  must  forget  me  (it  will  not  be  difficult,  I  dare 
say),  and  it  would  oe  a  downright  shame  to  keep  you 
to— to " 

"  Then  you  condemn  me  to  die  an  old  maid,  the  one 
thing  I  most  detest ;  while  you,  if  you  refuse  to  have  me, 
Teddy,  I  shall  insist  on  your  dying  an  old  bachelor,  if  only 
to  keep  me  in  countenance." 

"  Think  of  what  the  world  would  say." 

"  Who  cares  what  it  says  ?  And,  besides,  it  knows  we 
were  engaged  once/' 

"  And  also  that  we  quarreled  and  parted/' 

"  And  that  we  were  once  more  united  in  London,  where 
you  did  not  despise  the  poor  concert-singer.  Were  you  not 
devoted  to  me  then,  when  I  had  but  few  friends  ?  Were 
you  ashamed  of  me  then  ? " 

"Ashamed  of  you  1" 

"  Once  you  threw  me  over,"  says  Molly,  with  a  smile 
that  suits  the  month,  being  half  tears,  half  sunshine. 
'"'  Once  I  did  the  same  by  you.  That  makes  us  quits. 
Now  we  can  begin  all  over  again." 

"  Think  of  what  all  your  friends  will  say,"  says  he,  des- 
perately, knowing  he  is  losing  ground,  but  still  persisting. 

"  Indeed  I  will,  because  all  my  friends  are  yours,  and 
they  will  think  as  I  do." 

Two  little  tears  steal  from  under  her  heavily-fringed  lids, 
and  run  down  her  cheeks.  Going  nearer  to  him,  she  hesi- 
tates, glances  at  him  shyly,  hesitates  still,  and  finally  lays 
her  head  upon  his  shoulder. 

Of  course,  when  the  girl  you  love  lays  her  head  upon 
your  shoulder,  there  is  only  one  thing  to  be  done.  Luttrell 
does  that  one  thing.  He  instantly  encircles  her  with  his 
arms. 

"  See,  I  am  asking  you  to  marry  me,"  says  Molly,  raising 
dewy  eyes  to  his,  and  blushing  one  of  her  rare,  sweet  blushes. 
<(  I  beg  you  to  take  me.  If,  after  that,  you  refuse  me,  I 
shall  die  of  shame.  Why  don't  you  speak,  Teddy  ?  Say, 
*  Molly,  I  will  marry  you." 

"  Oh,  Molly  ! "  returns  the  young  man  gazing  down  cm 
her  despairingly,  while  his  strong  arms  hold  her  fast,  "  if 
you  were  only  poor.  If  this  cursed  monev " 

"  Never  mind  the  money.  What  do  1  oare  whether  I 
am  rich  or  poor  ?  I  care  only  for  you.  If  you  go  away,  I 
shall  be  the  poorest  wretch  on  earth  ! " 

"  My  angel !    My  own  darling  girl  1 " 


MOLL  Y  BA  WN.  383 

"No  I"  with  a  little  sob.  "Say,  'My  own  dariiiw 
wife!'"' 

"  My  own  darling  wife  \"  replies  he,  conquered. 

"  Then  why  don't  you  kiss  me  ?"  says  Miss  Massereene, 
«oftly,  her  face  dangerously  close  to  his;  and  Tedcastle, 
stooping,  forges  the  last  link  that  binds  him  to  her  forever. 

"Ah  ! "  says  Molly,  presently,  laughing  gayly,  although 
the  tears  still  lie  wet  upon  her  cheeks,  "  did  you  imagine 
for  one  instant  you  could  escape  me?  At  first  I  was  so 
angry  I  almost  determined  to  let  you  go, — as  punishment ; 
but  afterward" — mischievously — "I  began  to  think  how 
unhappy  you  would  be,  and  I  relented." 

''Then  I  suppose  I  must  now  buy  you  another  ring  for 
this  dear  little  finger,"  says  he,  smiling,  and  pressing  it  to 
his  lips. 

"  No," — running  her  hand  into  her  pocket,  "at  least,  not 
an  engagement  ring.  You  may  get  me  any  other  kind  you 
like,  because  I  am  fond  of  rings  ;  but  I  shall  have  no  be- 
trothal ring  but  the  first  you  gave  me.  Look," — drawing 
out  a  little  case,  and  opening  it  until  he  sees  within  the 
original  diamonds — his  first  gift,  f g  her — lying  gleaming  in 
their  rich  new  setting.  "  These  are  yours  ;  I  saved  them 
from  the  fire  that  day  you  behaved  so  rudely  to  them,  and 
have  had  them  reset." 

"You  rescued  them?"  he  asks,  amazed. 

"At  the  risk  of  burning  my  fingers  :  so  you  may  guess 
how  I  valued  them.  Now  they  are  purified,  and  you  must 
never  get  into  such  a  naughty  temper  again.  Promise." 

"I  promise  faithfully." 

"Now  I  shall  wear  it  again,"  says  Molly,  regarding 
her  ring  lovingly,  "under  happier — oh,  how  much  hap- 
pier— circumstances.  Put  it  on,  Teddy,  and  say  after  me, 
*  Darling  Molly,  pardon  me  for  having  compelled  you  to 
ask  my  hand  in  marriage  ! " 

"  I  will  not," — laughing. 

"  You  must.  You  are  my  property  now,  and  must  do 
as  I  bid  you.  So  you  may  as  well  begin  at  once.  Say  it, 
sir,  directly  I" 

He  says  it. 

"  Now  yon  know  what  a  horrible  hen-pecking  there  will 
be  for  you  in  the  future.  I  shall  rule  you  -with  a  rod  of 
bon." 

"  And  I  shall  hug  my  chains. n 

"  Think  what  a  life  I  am  condemning  yen.  to.    AM  joa 


384:  M&LL  Y  MA  WN. 

act  fKgktetied  ?  And  all  because — I  caawiM  d«  withoot 
you.  Oh,  Teddy/'  cries  Molly  Bawn,  suddenly,  and  with- 
out a  word  of  warning,  bursting  into  a  passion  of  tears,  and 
flinging  herself  into  his  willing  arms,  "  are  you  not  glad — 
glad — that  we  belong  to  each  other  again  ?  " 

"  Time  will  show  you  how  glad,"  replies  he,  softly.  "I 
know  now  I  could  not  have  lived  without  you,  my  sweet, — 
my  darling  !  " 


A.  L.  Bunt's  Catalogue  of  Books  for 
Young  People  by  Popular  Writers,  52- 
58  Duane  Street,  New  York  ^€  ><  x 

BOOKS  FOR  GIRLS. 

Alice's  Adventures  in  Wonderland.  By  LEWIS  CARROLL. 

12mo,  cloth,  42  illustrations,  price  75  cents. 

"From  first  to  last,  almost  without  exception,  tills  story  is  delightfully 
droll,  humorous  and  Illustrated  In  harmony  with  the  story."— New  York 

Through  the  Looking  Glass,  and  What  Alice  Found 

There.    By  LEWIS  CARROLL.    12uio,  cloth,  50  illustrations,  price  75  cents. 
"A  delight  alike  to  the  young  people  and  their  elders,  extremely  funny 
both  In  text  and  Illustrations." — Boston  Express. 

Little  Lucy's  Wonderful   Globe.    By  CHARLOTTE   M. 

YONGE.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"This  story  Is  unique  among  tales  intended  for  children,  alike  for  pleas- 
ant instruction,  quaintness  of  humor,  gentle  pathos,  and  the  subtlety  with 
which  lessons  moral  and  otherwise  are  conveved  to  children,  and  perbap* 
to  their  seniors  as  well." — The  Spectator. 

Joan's  Adventures  at  the  North  Pole  and  Elsewhere. 

BY  ALICE  CORKRAN.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"Wonderful  as  the  adventures  of  Joan  are.  It  must  be  admitted  that 
they  are  very  naturally  worked  out  and  very  plausibly  presented.  Alto- 
gether this  is  an  excellent  story  for  girls." — Saturday  Review, 

Count  Up  the  Sunny  Days :    A  Story  for  Girls  and  Boys. 

By  C.  A.  JONES.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"An  unusually   good  children's  story." — Glasgow  Herald. 

The   Dove  in  the   Eagle's   Nest.    By   CHAKLOTTE  M. 

YONQE.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  §1.00. 

"Among  all  the  modern  writers  we  believe  Miss  Yonge  first,  not  In 
genius,  but  In  this,  that  she  employs  her  great  abilities  for  a  high  and 
noble  purpose.  We  know  of  few  modern  writers  whose  works  may  be  so 
safely  commended  as  hers." — Cleveland  Times. 

Jan  of  the  Windmill.     A  Story  of  the  Plains.     By  MRS. 

J.  H.  EWINO.       12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $!.00. 

"Never  has  Mrs.  Ewlng  published  a  more  charming  volume,  and  that 
Is  saying  a  very  great  deal.  From  the  first  to  the  last  the  book  over- 
flows with  the  strange  knowledge  of  child-nature  which  so  rarely  sur- 
vives childhood;  and  moreover,  with  Inexhaustible  quiet  humor,  which 
is  never  anything  but  innocent  and  well-bred,  never  priggish,  and  never 
clumsy. ' ' — Academy. 

A  Sweet  Girl  Graduate.     By  L.  T.  MEADE.     12mo,  cloth, 

illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"One  of  this  popular  author's  best.  The  characters  are  well  Imagined 
<md  drawn.  The  story  moves  with  plenty  of  spirit  and  the  Interest  does 
not  flag  until  the  end  too  quickly  comes."— Providence  Journal. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publisher,  A.  L.  BUST,  52-58  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


2          A.  L.  BUliT  o  iWOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE. 

BOOKS  FOR  GIRLS. 

Six    to    Sixteen:    A   Story  for  Girls.    By  JULIANA 

HORATIA  EWIXG.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"There  is  no  doubt  as  to  the  good  quality  and  attractiveness  of  'Six  to 
Sixteen.'  The  book  is  one  which  would  enrich  any  girl's  book  shelf." — 
St.  James'  Gazette. 

The  Palace  Beautiful:    A  Story  for  Girls.     By  L.  T. 

MEADE.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  §1.00. 

"A  bright  and  interesting  story.  The  many  admirers  of  Mrs.  L.  T. 
Meade  in  this  country  will  be  delighted  with  the  'Palace  Beautiful'  for 
more  reasons  than  one.  It  is  a  charming  book  for  girls." — New  York 
Recorder. 

A  World  of  Girls:     The  Story  of  a  School.     By  L.  T. 

MEADE.    12rao,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"One  of  those  wholesome  stories  which  it  does  one  good  to  read.  It 
will  afford  pure  delight  to  numerous  readers.  This  book  should  be  on 
every  girl's  book  shelf." — Boston  Home  Journal. 

The  Lady  of  the  Forest:     A  Story  for  Girls.     By  L.  T. 

MEADK.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"This  story  is  written  in  the  author's  well-known,  fresh  and  easy  style. 
All  girls  fond  of  reading  will  be  charmed  by  this  well-written  story.  It 
is  told  with  the  author's  customary  grace  and  spirit." — Boston  Times. 

At  the  Back  of  the  North  Wind.    By  GEORGE  MAC- 
DONALD.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"A  very  pretty  story,  with  much  of  the  freshness  and  vigor  of  Mr.  Mac- 
donald's  earlier  work.  .  .  .  It  is  a  sweet,  earnest,  and  wholesome  fairy 
story,  and  the  quaint  native  humor  is  delightful.  A  most  delightful  vol- 
ume for  young  readers." — Philadelphia  Times. 

The  Water  Babies:     A  Fairy  Tale  for  a   Land  Baby. 

By  CHARLES  KIXGSLEY.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"The  strength  of  his  work,  as  well  as  its  peculiar  charms,  consist  In 
his  description  of  the  experiences  of  a  youth  with  life  under  water  in  the 
luxuriant  wealth  of  which  he  revels  with  all  the  ardor  of  a  poetical  na- 
ture."— New  York  Tribune. 

Our  Bessie.     By  KOSA  N.  CAEEY.     12mo,  cloth,  illus- 

strated,  price  $1.00. 

"One  of  the  most  entertaining  stories  of  the  season,  full  of  vigorous 
action,  and  strong  in  character-painting.  Elder  girls  will  be  charmed  with 
it,  and  adults  may  read  its  pages  with  profit." — The  Teachers'  Aid. 

Wild  Kitty.     A  Story  of  Middleton  School.     By  L.  T. 

MEADE.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  f  1.00. 

"Kitty  is  a  true  heroine — warm-hearted,  self-sacrificing,  and,  as  all 
good  women  nowadays  are,  largely  touched  with  the  enthusiasm  of  human- 
ity. One  of  thp  most  attractive  gift  books  of  the  season." — The  Academy. 

A  Young   Mutineer.     A    Story  for  Girls.     By   L.    T. 

MEADE.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"One  of  Mrs.  Meade's  charming  books  for  girls,  narrated  in  that  simple 
and  picturesque  style  which  marks  the  authoress  as  one  of  the  first  among 
writers  for  young  people. " — The  Spectator. 


For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publisher,   A.   L.   BTTRT,   53-58  Dune  Street,   New  York. 


A.  L.  BUST'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE.          f, 

BOOKS  FOR  GIRLS. 

Sue  and  I.    By  MRS.  O'KEILLY.    12mo,  cloth,  illus- 

trated,  price  75  cents. 
"A  thoroughly  delightful  book,  full  of  sound  wisdom  aa  well  as  ton."— 

Athenaeum. 

The  Princess  and  the   Goblin.    A   Fairy  Story.    By 

GEORGE  MACDONALD.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"If  a  child  once  begins  this  book,  it  will  get  so  deeply  Interested  In 
that  when  bedtime  comes  it  will  altogether  forget  the  moral,  and  will 
weary  its  parents  with  importunities  for  just  a  few  minutes  more  to  Bee 
how  everything  ends." — Saturday  Review. 

Pythia's    Pupils:    A    Story    of    a    School.    By  EVA 

HARTNER.    12mo,  cloth,  Illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"This  story  of  the  doings  of  several  bright  school  girls  Is  sure  to  Interest 
girl  readers.  Among  many  good  stories  for  girls  this  Is  undoubtedly  one 
of  the  very  best." — Teachers'  Aid. 

A  Story  of  a  Short  Life.    By  JULIANA  HORATIA  EWING. 

12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"The  book  is  one  we  can  heartily  recommend,  for  It  Is  not  only  bright 
and  interesting,  but  also  pure  and  healthy  la  tone  and  teaching.'" — 
Couiier. 

The  Sleepy  Zing.    A  Fairy  Tale.    By  AUBREY  HOP- 
WOOD  AND  SEYMOUR  HICKS.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  tents. 
"Wonderful  as  the  adventures  of  Bluebell  are,  It  must  be  admitted  that 

they    are    very    naturally    worked    out    and    very    plausibly    presented. 

Altogether  this  is  au  excellent  story  for  girls." — Saturday  Review. 

Two    Little    Waifs.    By    MRS.  MOLESWORTH.    12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"Mrs.  Molesworth's  delightful  story  of  'Two  Little  Waifs'  will  charm 
all  the  small  people  who  find  it  In  tlieir  stockings.  It  relates  the  ad- 
ventures of  two  lovable  English  children  lost  In"  Paris,  and  Isjust  wonder- 
ful enough  to  pleasantly  wring  the  youthful  heart." — New  York  Tribune. 

Adventures  in  Toyland.    By  EDITH  KING  HALL.    12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"The  author  Is  such  a  bright,  cheery  writer,  that  her  stories  are 
always  acceptable  to  ail  who  are  not  confirmed  cynics,  and  her  record  ot 
tho  adventures  is  as  entertaining  and  enjoyable  as  we  might  expect." — 

Boston  Courier. 

Adventures  in  Wallypug  Land.    By  G.  E.  FARROW. 

12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"These  adventures  are  simply  Inimitable,  and  will  delight  boys  and  glrla 
of  mature  age,  as  well  as  their  Juniors.  No  happier  combination  of 
author  and  artist  than  this  volume  presents  could  be  found  to  furnish 
healthy  amusement  to  the  young  folks.  The  book  Is  on  artistic  one  In 
every  sense." — Toronto  Mail. 

Fussbudget's  Folks.    A   Story  for  Young  Girls.    By 

ANNA  F.  BURNHAM.    12tno,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  §1.00. 

"Mrs.  Burnham  has  a  rare  gift  for  composing  stories  for  children.  Wltto 
a  light,  yet  forcible  touch,  she  paints  sweet  and  artless,  yet  natural  and 
strong,  characters. ' ' — Congregrationalist. ___ 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  tb* 
publisher,  A.  L.  BUET,  68-68  Dvuuie  Street,  New  York. 


4          £.  E.  BUST'S  BOOKS  FOB  YOUNG  PEOPLE. 

BOOKS  FOR  GIRLS. 

Mixed  Pickles.    A  Story  for  Girls.    By  MBS.  E.  M. 

FIELD.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"It  is,  in  its  way,  a  little  classic,  of  which  the  real  beauty  and  pathos 
can  hardly  be  appreciated  by  young  people.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say 
of  the  story  that  it  is  perfect  of  Its  kind." — Good  Literature. 

Miss  Mouse   and   Her  Boys.     A  Story  for  Girls.     By 

MRS.  MOLESWORTH.    liimo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"Mrs.   Molesworth's  books  are  cheery,  wholesome,   and  particularly  well 
adapted  to  refined  life.     It  is  safe  to  add  that  she  is  the  best  English  prose 
writer  for  children.     A   new    volume   from   Mrs.    Molesworth   is  always  a 
treat." — The  Beacon. 

Gilly  Flower.    A  Story   for   Girls.    By  the  author  of 

"Miss  Toosey's  Mission."       12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"Jill  is  a  little  guardian  angel  to  three  lively  brothers  who  tease  and 
play  with  her.  .  .  .  Her  unconscious  goodness  brings  right  thoughts 
and  resolves  to  several  persons  who  come  into  contact  with  her.  There  is 
no  goodiness  in  this  tale,  but  its  influence  is  of  the  best  kind." — Literary 
World. 

The  Chaplet  of  Pearls ;  or,  The  White  and  Black  Ribau- 

mont.    By  CHARLOTTE  M.  YONGE.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"Full  of  spirit  and  life,  so  well  sustained  throughout  that  grown-np 
readers  may  enjoy  it  as  much  as  children.  It  is  one  of  the  best  books  of 
the  season." — Guardian. 

Naughty  Miss  Bunny :     Her  Tricks  and  Troubles.     By 

CLARA  MCLHOLLAND.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"The  naughty  child  is  positively  delightful.     Papas  should  not  omit  the 
book  from  their  list  of  juvenile  presents." — Land  and  Watjr. 

Meg's   Friend.     By    ALICE    CORKRAST.     12mo,    cloth, 

illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"One  of  Miss  Corkran's  charming  books  for  girls,  narrated  in  that  simple 
and  picturesque  style  which  mark1)  the  authoress  as  one  of  the  first  among 
writers  for  young  people." — The  Spectator. 

Averil.     By  ROSA  N.  CAEEY.     12mo,  cloth,  illustrated, 

price  $1.00. 

"A  charming  story  for  young  folks.  Averil  is  a  delightful  creature — 
piquant,  tender,  and  true — and  her  varying  fortunes  are  perfectly  real- 
istic. "—World. 

Aunt  Diani.     By  ROSA  N.  CAREY.     12mo,  cloth,  illus- 
trated, price  $1.00. 
"An   excellent   story,    the   interest   being   sustained    from   first   to   last. 

This  is,   both  in  its  intention  and  the  way  the  story  is  told,   one  of  the 

best  books  of  its  kind  which  has  coma   before  us  this  year." — Saturday 

Review. 

little  Sunshine's  Holiday:     A  Picture  from  Life.     By 

Miss  MULOCK.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"This  is  a  pretty  narrative  of  child  life,  describing  the  simple  doings 
and  sayings  of  a  very   charming  and   rather  precocious  child.     This  is  a 
delightful  book  for  young  people." — Gazette. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  prlc«  by  the 
publisher,  A.  L.  BTJET,  52-5$  Duaue  Street,  New  York 


fc,  BUST'S  BOOKS  FOB  YOUNG  PBOPLR, 

BOOKS  FOR  GIRLS. 

Esther's  Charge.  A  Story  for  Girls.  By  ELLBN  EVERETT 

GKKEN.    12mo,  uloth,  illustrated,  prici  $1.00, 

"...  This  is  a  story  showing  In  a  charming  way  how  one  little 
girl's  Jealousy  and  bad  temper  were  conquered;  one  or  the  best,  most 
•uggestive  and  improving  or  the  Christmas  Juveniles."— New  York  Trib- 
tuxo* 

Fairy  Land  of   Science.    By  ARABELLA  B.  BUCKLEY. 

12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"We  can  highly  recommend  It;  not  only  for  the  valuable  information 
It  gives  on  the  special  subjects  to  which  It  is  dedicated,  but  also  as  a 
book  teaching  natural  sciences  in  an  Interesting  way.  A  fascinating 
little  volume,  which  will  make  friends  in  every  household  la  which  then 
are  children." — Daily  News. 

Merle's  Crusade.     By   ROSA  N.  CAREY.     12mo,  cloth, 

illustrated,  price  {1.00. 

"Among  the  books  for  young  people  we  have  seen  nothing  more  unique 
than  this  book.  Like  all  of  this  author's  stories  it  will  please  young  read- 
ers by  the  very  attractive  and  charming  style  in  which  it  is  written." — 
Journal. 

Birdie:    A   Tale   of   Child  Life.    By  H.  L.  CHILDE- 

PEMBERTON.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"The  story  is  quaint  and  simple,  but  there  is  a  freshness  about  It 
that  makes  one  hear  again  the  ringing  laugh  and  the  cheery  shout  of  chil- 
dren at  play  which  charmed  his  earlier  years." — New  York  Express. 

rhe  Days  of  Bruce:     A  Story  from  Scottish  History. 

By  GRACE  AGCILAR.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"There  is  a  delightful  freshness,  sincerity  and  vivacity  about  all  of  Grace 
Agullar's  stories  which  cannot  fail  to  win  the  interest  and  admiration  of 
every  lover  of  good  reading." — Boston  Beacon. 

Ihree  Bright  Girls :     A  Story  of  Chance  and  Mischance. 

By  ANNIE  E.  ARMSTRONG.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"The  charm  of  the  story  lies  in  the  cheery  helpfulness  of  spirit  devel- 
oped in  the  girls  by  their  changed  circumstances;  while  the  author  find* 
a  pleusnnt  ending  to  all  their  happy  makeshifts.  The  story  is  charmingly 
told,  and  the  book  can  be  warmly  recommended  as  a  present  for  girls.  — 
Standard. 

Giannetta :    A  Girl's  Story  of  Herself.     By  ROSA  MUL- 

&OLLAND.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"Extremely  well  told  and  full  of  interest.  Glannetta  is  a  true  heroine— 
flrarin-hearted,  self-sacrificing,  and,  as  all  good  women  nowadays  are, 
largely  touched  with  enthusiasm  of  humanity.  The  illustrations  are  un- 
usually good.  One  of  the  most  attractive  gift  books  of  the  season." — To* 
Acadeay. 

Margery    Merton's    Girlhood.    By    ALICE    CORKRAK. 

12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"The  experiences  of  an  orphan  girl  who  in  Infancy  is  left  by  her 
father  to  the  care  of  an  elderly  aunt  residing  near  Paris.  The  accounts 
of  the  various  persons  who  have  an  after  influence  on  the  story  are  sin- 
gularly vivid.  There  is  a  subtle  attraction  about  the  book  which  will  make 
it  a  great  favorite  with  thoughtful  girls." — Saturday  Review. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  pete*  by  tb» 
A.  L.  BUST.   68-68  Xhi*ne  Street.   New  York. 


E.  BUBT^  LOUXS  FOR  *0'_N*G  PEOPLE. 


BOOKS  FOR  GiRLS. 

Under  False  Colors:     A  Story  from  Two  Girls'  Lives. 

By  SARAH  DOUD.VKT.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"Sarah  Doudrioy  has  no  superior  as  a  writer  of  high-toned  stories — pure 
In  style,  original  In  conception,  and  with  skillfully  wrought  out  plots;  but 
we  have  seen  nothing  equal  iu  dramatic  energy  to  this  book." — Christian 
Leader. 

Down  the  Snow  Stairs;  or,  From  Good-night  to  Good- 
morning.    By  ALICE  CORKRAS".    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"Among  all  the  Christmas  volumes  which  the  year  has  brought  to  our 
table  this  one  stands  out  facile  princeps — a  gem  of  the  first  water,  bearing 
upon  every  one  of  its  pages  th»  signet  mark  of  genius.     .     .     .     All  is  told 
with  such  simplicity  and  perfect  naturalness  that  the  dream  appears  to  be 
a    solid    reality.     It    is    indeed    a    Little    Pilgrim's    Progress." — Christian 
Leader. 

The  Tapestry  Room:     A  Child's  Romance.     By  MBS. 

MOLESWORTH.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"Mrs.  Moleswortb.  is  a  charming  painter  of  the  nature  and  ways  of 
children;  and  she  has  done  good  service  in  giving  us  this  charming 
Juvenile  which  will  delight  the  young  people." — Athenaeum,  London. 

Little  Miss  Peggy:     Only  a  Xursery  Story.     By  MBS. 

MOLESWORTH.    12rao,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

Mrs.  Molesworth's  children  are  finished  studies.  A  Joyous  earnest  spirit 
pervades  her  work,  and  her  sympathy  is  unbounded.  She  loves  them 
with  her  whole  heart,  while  she  lays  bare  their  little  minds,  and  expresses 
their  foibles,  their  faults,  their  virtues,  their  inward  struggles,  their 
conception  of  duty,  and  their  instinctive  knowledge  of  the  right  and  wrong 
of  things.  She  knows  their  characters,  she  understands  their  wants, 
and  she  desires  to  help  them. 

Polly:     A    New    Fashioned    Girl.     By    L.  T.  MEADE. 

12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  81 .00. 

Few  authors  have  achieved  a  popularity  equal  to  Mrs.  Meade  as  a 
writer  of  stories  for  young  girls.  Her  characters  are  living  beings  of 
flesh  and  blood,  not  lay  figures  of  conventional  type.  Into  the  trials 
and  crosses,  and  everyday  experiences,  the  reader  enters  at  once  with  zest 
and  hearty  sympathy.  While  Mrs.  Meade  always  writes  with  a  high 
moral  purpose,  her  lessons  of  life,  purity  and  nobility  of  character  are 
rather  Inculcated  by  example  than  intruded  as  sermons. 

One  of  a  Covey.     By  the    author  of  "Miss    Toosey's 

Mission."    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"Full  of  spirit  and  life,  so  well  sustained  •'hronghout  that  grown-up 
readers  may  enjoy  it  as  much  as  children.  This  'Covey'  consists  of  the 
twelve  children  of  a  hard-pressed  Dr.  Partridge  out  of  which  is  chosen  a 
little  girl  to  be  adopted  hy  a  spoiled,  fine  lady.  We  have  rarely  read 
a  Rtory  for  boys  and  girls  with  greater  pleasure.  One  of  the  chief  char- 
acters would  not  have  disgraced  Dickens'  pen." — Literary  World. 

The  little  Princess  of  Tower  Hill.    By  L.  T.  MEADE. 

12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"This  Is  one  of  the  prettiest  books  for  children  published,  ac  pretty 
as  a  pond-lily,  and  quite  as  fragrant.  Nothing  could  be  Imagined  more 
attractive  to  young  people  than  such  a  combination  of  fresh  pages  and 
fair  pictures;  and  while  children  will  rejoice  over  It — which  is  much 
better  than  crying  for  It — it  is  a  book  that  can  be  read  with  pleasure 
even  by  older  boys  and  girls." — Boston  Advertiser. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publisher.  A.  L.  BXTRT,  52-58  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


A.  t.  BURT^  BOOKS  FOE  YOUNG  PEOPLE.          7 

BOOKS  FOR  GIRLS. 

Rosy.     By  MRS.  MOLESWOETH.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated, 

price  75  cents. 

Mrs.  Molesworth,  considering  the  quality  and  quantity  of  her  labor*, 
is  the  best  story-teller  for  children  England  has  yet  known. 

"This  is  a  very  pretty  story.  The  writer  knows  children,  and  tn«lr 
ways  v.-ell.  The  Illustrations  are  exceedingly  well  drawn." — Spectator. 

Esther:     A  Book  for  Girls.    By  ROSA  N.  CAREY.    12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  gl.OO. 

"She  inspires  her  readers  simply  by  bringing  them  in  contact  with  the 
characters,  who  are  in  themselves  Inspiring.  Her  simple  stories  are  woven 
in  order  to  give  her  an  opportunity  to  describe  her  characters  by  their  own 
conduct  in  seasons  of  trial." — Chicago  Times. 

Sweet  Content.    By  MRS.  MOLESWORTH.     12mo,  cloth, 

illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"It  seems  to  me  not  at  all  easier  to  draw  a  lifelike  child  than  to  draw 
a  lifelike  man  or  woman:  Shakespeare  and  Webster  were  the  only  two 
men  of  their  age  wbo  could  do  it  with  perfect  delicacy  and  success. 
Our  own  age  is  more  fortunate,  on  this  single  score  at  least,  having  a 
larger  and  far  nobler  proportion  of  female  writers;  among  whom,  since 
the  death  of  George  Eliot,  there  is  none  left  whose  touch  is  so  exquisite 
and  masterly,  whose  love  is  so  thoroughly  according  to  knowledge,  whose 
bright  and  sweet  invention  is  so  fruitful,  so  truthful,  or  so  delightful  as 
Mrs.  Molesworth's." — A.  C.  Swinbourne. 

Honor  Bright ;  or,  The  Four-Leaved  Shamrock.     By  the 

author  of  "Miss  Toosey's  Mission."    12mo.  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1  00. 

"It  requires  a  special  talent  to  describe  the  sayings  and  doings  of 
children,  and  the  author  of  'Honor  Bright,"  'One  of  a  Covey,'  possesses  that 
talent  in  no  small  degree.  A  cheery,  sensible,  and  healthy  tale." — The 
Times. 

The  Cuckoo  Clock.     By  MRS.   MOLESWORTH.     12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"A  beautiful  little  story.  It  will  be  read  with  delight  by  every  child 
Into  whose  hands  it  is  placed.  .  .  .  The  author  deserves  all  the  praise 
that  has  been,  is,  and  will  be  bestowed  on  'The  Cuckoo  Clock.'  Children's 
stories  are  plentiful,  but  one  like  this  is  not  to  be  met  with  every  day." — 
Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

The  Adventures  of  a  Brownie.    As  Told  to  my  Child. 

By  Miss  MULOCK.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"The  author  of  this  delightful  little  book  leaves  it  in  doubt  all  through 
whether  there  actually  is  such  a  creature  in  existence  as  a  Brownie,  but 
she  makes  us  hope  that  there  might  be." — Chicago  Standard. 

Only  a  Girl:    A  Tale  of  Brittany.     From  the  French 

by  C.  A.  JONES.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  pi-ice  $1.00. 
"We  can  thoroughly  recommend  this  brightly  written  and  homely  nar- 
rative."— Saturday  Review. 

little   Rosebud;  or,  Things  Will    Take   a   Turn,    By 

BEATRICE  HARRADEN.    12mo,  cloth,  Illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"A  most  delightful  little  book.     .     .     .     Miss  Harraden  Is  so  bright,  *> 
healthy,  and  so  natural  withal  that  the  book  ought,  as  a  matter  of  duty, 
to  be  "added  to  every  girl's  library   In   the   land." — Boston  Transcript. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  prlc«  *>>  **• 
publisher,  A.  L.  BUET,  6*-68  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


8       A.  L.  HURT'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE. 
BOOKS  FOR  GIRLS. 

Girl  Neighbors ;  or,  The  Old  Fashion  and  the  New.     By 

SARAH  TYTLER.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"One  of  the  most  effective  and  quietly  humorous  of  Miss  Tytler's  stories. 
'Girl  Neighbors'  is  a  pleasant  comedy,  not  so  much  of  errors  as  of  preju- 
dices got  rid  of,  very  healthy,  very  agreeable,  and  very  well  written." — 
Spectator. 

The  Little  Lame  Prince  and  His  Traveling  Cloak.     By 

Miss  MOLOCK.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"No   sweeter — that   Is   the   proper    word — Christmas   story   for   the   little 
folks  could  easily   be  found,    and   It   is  as  delightful   for  older   readers   as 
well.     There  is  a  moral  to  it  which  the  reader  can  find  out  for  himself,  if 
he  chooses  to  think." — Cleveland  Herald. 

Little  Miss  Joy.     By  EMMA  MAESHALL.     12mo,  cloth, 

illustrated,  price  76  cents. 

"A  very  pleasant  and  instructive  story,  told  by  a  very  charming  writer 
In  such  an  attractive  way  as  to  win  favor  among  its  young  readers.  The 
Illustrations  add  to  the  beauty  of  the  book." — TTtica  Herald. 

The  House  that  Grew.    A  Girl's  Story.    By  MRS.  MOLES- 
WORTH.    32ino,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"This  is  a   very  pretty   story   of   English   life.     Mrs.   Molesworth   is  one 

of   the   most   popular  and  charming  of   English   story-writers   for  children. 

Her    child    characters    are    true    to    life,    always    natural    and    attractive, 

and  her  stories  are  wholesome  and  interesting." — Indianapolis  Journal. 

The   House   of   Surprises.     By   L.    T.  MEADE.     12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"A  charming  tale  of  charming  children,  who  are  naughty  enough  to  be 
Interesting,  and  natural  enough  to  be  lovable;  and  very  prettily  their  story 
is  told.  The  quaintest  yet  most  natural  stories  of  child  life.  Simply 
delightful." — Vanity  Fair. 

The  Jolly  Ten:  and  their  Year  of  Stories.     By  AGNES 

CARR  SAGE.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

The  story  of  a  band  of  cousins  who  were  accustomed  to  meet  at  the 
"Pinery,"  with  "Aunt  Roxy."  At  her  fireside  they  play  merry  games, 
have  suppers  flavored  with  innocent  fun,  and  listen  to  stories — each  with 
its  lesson  calculated  to  make  the  ten  not  less  jolly,  but  quickly  re- 
sponsive to  the  calls  of  duty  and  to  the  needs  of  others. 

Little  Miss  Dorothy.     The  Wonderful  Adventures  of 

Two  Little  People.    By  MARTHA  JAMES.    13mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75c. 

"This  is  a  charming  little  juvenile  story   from   the  pen  of  Mrs.   James, 

detailing    the    various   adventures   of    a    couple   of   young    children.     Their 

many    adventures    are    told    in    a    charming    manner,    and    the    book    will 

please  yonng  girls  and  boys." — Montreal.  Star. 

Pen's   Venture.      A    Story   for    Girls.     By    ELVIRTON 

WRIOHT.    ISmo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

Something  Pen  saw  in  the  condition  of  the  casb  girls  In  a  certain  store 
gave  her  a  thought;  the  thought  became  a  plan;  the  plan  became  a  ven- 
ture— Pen's  venture.  It  is  amusing,  touching,  and  Instructive  to  read  about 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  pries  by  the 
publisher,  A.  L.  BURT,  58-68  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


1L  L.  BUBT'S  BOOKS  FOR  *OUNG  PBOPLB. 


FAIRY  BOOKS. 

The  Blue  Fairy  Book.    Edited  by  ANDREW  LANG,    Pro- 

fuseiy  illustrated,  12ino(  cloth,  price  $1.00. 

"The  tales  are  simply  delightful.  No  amount  of  description  can  Ac 
them  Justice.  The  only  way  Is  to  read  the  book  through  from  cover  to 
cover." — Book  Review. 

The  Green  Fairy  Book.    Edited  by  ANDEEW  LANG. 

Profusely  illustrated,  12mo,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 

"The  most  delightful  book  of  fairy  tales,  taking  form  and  content!  t» 
gether,  ever  presented  to  children." — E.  S.  Hart  land,  in  Folk- Lore, 

The  Yellow  Fairy  Book    Edited  by  ANDEEW  LANG, 

Profusely  illustrated,  12mo,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 

"As  a  collection  of  fairy  tales  to  delight  children  of  all  ages.  It  rankt, 
second  to  none." — Daily  Graphic. 

The  Red  Fairy  Book.     Edited  by  ANDEEW  LANG.    Pro- 
fusely illustrated,  12mo,  cloth,  price  81. CO. 
"A  gift-book  that  will  charm  any  child,  and  al]  older  folk,  who  have 

been  fortunate  enough  to  retain  their  taste  for  the  old  nursery  stories." — 

Literary  World. 

Celtic  Fairy  Tales.    Edited  by  JOSEPH  JACOBS.    12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"A  stock  of  delightful  little  narratives  gathered  chiefly  from  the  Celtic- 
speaking  peasants  of  Ireland.  A  perfectly  lovely  book.  And  oh!  the 
wonderful  pictures  Inside.  Get  this  book  if  you  can;  It  is  capital,  all 
through." — Fall  Mall  Budget. 

English  Fairy  Tales.    Edited  by  JOSEPH  JACOBS.  12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"The  tales  are  simply  delightful.  No  amount  of  description  can  do 
them  Justice.  The  only  way  is  to  read  the  book  through  from  cover  to 
cover.  The  book  Is  Intended  to  correspond  to  'Grimm's  Fairy  Tales,' 
and  it  must  be  allowed  that  its  pages  fairly  rival  In  interest  those  ol 
that  well-known  repository  of  folk-lore." — Morning  Herald. 

Indian  Fairy  Tales.    Edited  by  JOSEPH  JACOBS.     12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"Mr.  Jacobs  brings  home  to  ns  In  a  clear  and  Intelligible  manner  the 
enormous  influence  which  'Indian  Fairy  Tales'  have  had  upon  European 
literature  of  the  kind.  The  present  combination  will  be  welcomed  not 
alone  by  the  little  ones  for  whom  It  is  specially  combined,  but  also  by 
children  of  larger  growth  and  added  years." — Daily  Telegraph. 

Household  Fairy  Tales.    By  the  BROTHEES  GRIMM. 

12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00, 

"As  a  collection  of  fairy  tales  to  delight  children  of  aD  agei  tblt 
work  ranks  second  to  none." — Daily  Graphic. 

Fairy  Tales  and  Stories.    By  HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDES- 
SEN.   12mo,  cloth,  Illustrated,  price  $1.00. 
"If  I  were  asked  to  select  a  child's  library  I  should  name  those  three 

TOlumes,    'English.'   'Celtic,'   and    'Indian   Fairy  Tales,'  with  Grimm  and 

Hans  Andersen's  Fairy  Tales." — Independent. 

*  For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  tirt 
publiaher.  A.  L.  BUET,  M-M  Duaae  Street,  New  York. 


10     x.  C.  HURT'S  BOOKS  FOB  YOUNG  PEOPLE. 


FAIRY  BOOKS. 

Popular  Fairy  Tales.    By  the  BEOTHEES  GEIMM.   12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"From  first  to  last,  almost  without  exception,  these  stories  are  delight- 
ful. ' ' — Athenaum. 

Icelandic  Fairy  Tales.    By  A.  W.  HALL.    12mo,  cloth, 

illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"The  most  delightful  book  of  fairy  tales,  taking  form  and  contents  to- 
gether, ever  presented  to  children.  The  whole  collection  Is  dramatic  and 
humorous.  A  more  desirable  child's  book  has  not  been  seen  for  many  a 
day." — Daily  News. 

Fairy  Tales  From  the  Far  North.     (Norwegian.)     By 

P.  C.  ASBJORNSEN.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

i  "If  we  were  asked  what  present  would  make  a  child  happiest  at  Chrlst- 
mastlde  we  think  we  could  with  a  clear  conscience  point  to  Mr.  Jacobs' 
book.  It  Is  a  dainty  and  an  Interesting  volume." — Notes  and  Queries. 

Cossack  Fairy   Tales.    By  E.    NISBET   BAIN.    12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"A  really  valuable  and  curious  selection  which  will  be  welcomed  by 
readers  of  all  ages.  .  .  .  The  Illustrations  by  Mr.  Batten  are  often 
clever  and  Irresistibly  humorous.  A  delight  alike  to  the  young  people 
and  their  elders." — Globe. 

The  Golden  Fairy  Book.   By  VAEIOUS.  AUTHOES.    12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"The  most  delightful  book  of  Its  kind  that  has  come  In  our  way  for 
many  a  day.  It  Is  brimful  of  pretty  stories.  Retold  In  a  truly  delghtful 
manner.  "—Graphic. 

The  Silver  Fairy  Book.    By  VAEIOUS  AUTHOES.     12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"The  book  Is  Intended  to  correspond  to  'Grimm's  Fairy  Tales,*'  and  It 
must  be  allowed  that  its  pages  fairly  rival  In  Interest  those  of  the  well- 
known  repository  of  folk-lore.  It  Is  a  most  delightful  volume  of  fairy 
tales. ' ' — Courier. 

The  Brownies,  and  Other  Stories.   By  JULIANA  HOEATIA 

EWTNO.    I2mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"Like  all  the  books  she  has  written  this  one  Is  very  charming,  and 
Is  worth  more  In  the  hands  of  a  child  than  a  score  of  other  stories  of  a 
more  sensational  character." — Christian  at  Work. 

The  Hunting  of  the  Snark.    An  Agony  in  Eight  Fits. 

By  LEWIS  CARROLL,  author  of  "Alice  In  Wonderland."    12mo,  cloth,  Illus- 
trated, price  75  cents. 
"This  glorious  piece  of  nonsense.         .    .    Everybody  ought  to  read  it 

— nearly  everybody  will — and  all  who  deserve  the  treat  will  scream  with 

laughter. ' ' — Graphic. 

lob  Lie-By-the-fire,  and  Other  Tales.    By  JULIANA 

HORATIO  EWING.    I2mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

•'Mrs.  Ewing  has  written  aa  good  a  story  as  her  'Browntes,'  and  ttrat 
fe  saying  a  great  deal.  'Lob  Lle-br-the-fire'  has  humor  and  pathos,  and 
teaches  what  Is  right  without  making  children  think  they  are  reading  a 
germon." — Saturday'  Review. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publisher,  A.  L.  BUBT,  62-68  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


A.  L.  SUET'S  BOOKS  FOB,  XOUNG  PEOPLB.     11 

BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

By  Eight  of  Conquest;  or,   With'  Cortez  in   Mexico. 

By   G.   A.   HESTY.    With  illustrations  by  W.  8.  STAGEY.    12mo,  cloth, 

olivine  edges,  price  $1.50. 

"The  conquest  of  Mexico  by  a  small  baud  of  resolute  men  under  tht 
magnificent  leadership  of  Cortez  is  always  rightfully  ranked  among  the  most 
romantic  and  daring  exploits  iu  history.  'By  Right  of  Conquest*  is  the 
neaiest  approach  to  a  perfectly  successful  historical  tale  that  Mr.  Hent; 
has  yet  published." — Academy. 

For  Name  and  Fame;   or,  Through  Afghan  Passes 

By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE.    12mo,  cloth. 

olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Not  only  a  rousing  story,  replete  with  all  the  varied  forms  of  excite- 
ment of  a  campaign,  but,  what  is  still  more  useful,  an  account  of  a 
territory  and  its  inhabitants  wh.ch  must  for  a  long  time  possess  a  supreme 
Interest  for  Englishmen,  as  being  the  key  to  our  Indian  limpire."— 
Glasgow  Herald. 

The  Bravest  of  the  Brave;  or,  With  Peterborough  in 

Spain.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  Illustrations   by  H.  M.    FAGET.    12mo 

cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Mr.  Henty  never  loses  sight  of  the  moral  purpose  of  his  work — to 
enforce  the  doctrine  of  courage  and  truth,  mercy  and  loving  ki  idness, 
as  indispensable  to  the  making  of  a  gentleman.  Boys  will  rea  'The 
Bravest  of  the  Brave*  with  pleasure  and  profit;  of  that  we  are  quite 
sure." — Daily  Telegraph. 

The  Cat  of  Bubastes :  A  Story  of  Ancient  Egypt.    By 

G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"The  story,  from  the  critical  moment  of  the  killing  of  the  sacred  cat 
to  the  perilous  exodus  into  Asia  with  which  it  closes,   is  very  skillfully 
constructed  and  full  of  exciting  adventures.     It  is  admirably  illustrated. 
— Saturday  Review. 

Bonnie  Prince  Charlie:    A  Tale  of  Fontenoy  and  Cul- 

loden.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BRO*"NE.    12mo, 

cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Ronald,  the  hero,  is  very  like  the  hero  of  'Quentin  Durward.'  The 
lad's  journey  across  France,  and  his  hairbreadth  escapes,  mal.eo  up  as 
good  a  narrative  of  the  kind  as  we  have  ever  read.  For  fre:  hness  of 
treatment  and  variety  of  incident  Mr.  Henty  has  surpassed  himself." — 
Spectator. 

With  Clive  in  India;  or,  The  Beginnings  of  an  Empire, 

By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE.    12mo,  cloth, 

olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"He  has  taken  a  period  of  Indian  history  of  the  most  vital  impor- 
tance, and  he  has  embroidered  on  the  historical  facts  a  story  which  oi 
Itself  is  deeply  interesting.  Young  people  assuredly  will  ha  delighted 
with  the  volume." — Scotsman. 

In  the  Reign  of  Terror:    The  Adventures  of  a  West- 
minster Boy.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  J.  SoHfiNBEBO. 
12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 
"Harry  Sandwith.  the  Westminster  boy,  may  fairly    be    said    to    beat 

Mr.    Henty's   record.     His  adventures  will  delight   boys  by   the  audacity 

and  peril  they  depict.     The  story  Is  one  of  Mr.  Henty's  best." — Saturday 

Review. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  {trio*  ay  Uw 
tmhlisher.  A.  L.  BUST,  62-60  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


12     A.  L.  HURT'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE. 

BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

The  Lion  of  the  North:    A  Tale  of  Gustavus  Adolphus 

and  the  Wars  of  Religion.    By  O.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  JOBS 

SCHONBERG.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"A  praiseworthy  attempt  to  interest  British  youth  in  the  great  deeds 
of  the  Scotch  Brigade  in  the  wars  of  Gustavus  Adolphus.  Mac-key,  Hep- 
burn, and  Munro  live  again  in  Mr.  Henty's  pages,  as  those  deserve  to 
live  whose  disciplined  bands  formed  really  the  germ  of  the  modern 
British  army." — Athemeum. 

The  Dragon  and  the  Raven;   or,   The   Days  of   King 

Alfred.    By  Q.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  C.  J.  STANILAKD.    12mo, 

cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

In  this  story  the  author  gives  an  account  of  the  fierce  struggle  be- 
tween Saxon  and  Dane  for  supremacy  in  England,  and  presents  a  viviO 
picture  of  the  misery  and  ruin  to  which  the  country  was  reduced  by  the 
ravages  of  the  sea-wolves.  The  story  is  treated  in  a  manner  most  at- 
tractive to  the  boyish  reader." — Athenaeum. 

The  Young  Carthaginian:    A  Story  of  the  Times  of 

Hannibal.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  C.  J.  STANILAND.  12mo, 

cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Wtll  constructed  and  vividly  told.  From  first  to  last  nothing  stays 
the  interest  of  the  narrative.  It  bears  us  along  as  on  a  stream  whose 
current  varies  in  direction,  but  never  loses  its  force." — Saturday  Review. 

In  Freedom's  Cause:    A  Story  of  Wallace  and  Bruce. 

By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE.    12mo,  cloth, 

olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"It  is  written  in  the  author's  best  style.  Full  of  the  wildest  and  most 
remarkable  achievements,  It  is  a  tale  of  great  interest,  which  a  boy,  once 
he  has  begun  it,  will  not  willingly  put  one  side." — The  Schoolmaster. 

With  Wolfe  in  Canada;  or,  The  Winning  of  a  Con- 
tinent. By  G.  A.  HENTY.  With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE.  12mo, 
cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"A  model  of  what  a  boys'  story-book  should  be.  Mr.  Henty  has  a 
great  power  of  infusing  into  the  dead  facts  of  history  new  life,  and  as 
no  pains  are  spared  by  him  to  ensure  accuracy  In  historic  details,  his 
books  supply  useful  aids  to  study  as  well  as  amusement." — School  Guard- 
ian. 

True  to  the  Old  Flag:    A  Tale  of  the  American  War  of 

Independence.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE. 

12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Does  Justice  to  the  pluck  and  determination  of  the  British  sollders 
inring  the  unfortunate  struggle  against  American  emancipation.  The  son 
of  an  American  loyalist,  who  remains  true  to  our  flag,  falls  among  the 
hostile  red-skins  in  that  very  Huron  country  which  has  been  endeared 
to  us  by  the  exploits  of  Hawkeye  and  Chingachgook." — The  Times. 

A  Final  Beckoning:    A   Tale  of  Bush   Life  in  Aus- 
tralia.   By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  W.  B.  WOLI<EN.    12ino, 
cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 
"All  boys  will  read  this  story  with  eager  and  unflagging  interest.    The 

episodes  are  in  Mr.   Henty's  very  best  vein — graphic,   exciting,  realistic; 

and,  as  in  all  Mr.  Henty's  books,  the  tendency  is  to  the  formation  of  an 

honorable,    manly,    and   even   heroic   character." — Birmingham   Post. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publisher,  A,  L.  BTJBT,  52-58  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


A.  L.  BURT-'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE.        13 

BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

The  Lion  of  St.  Mark:    A  Tale  of  Venice  in  the  Four- 
teenth Century.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWXK 
12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 
"Every  boy  should  read  'The  Lion  of  St.  Mark.'     Mr.  Henty  has  never 

produced  a  story  more  delightful,  more  wholesome,  or  more  vivacious." — 

Saturday    Eeview. 

Facing  Death;  or,  The  Hero  of  the  Vaughan  Pit.    A 

Tale  of  the  Coal  Mines.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON 

BROWNE.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"The  tale  Is  well  written  and  well  Illustrated,  and  there  Is  much 
peallty  In  the  characters.  If  any  father,  clergyman,  or  schoolmaster 
Is  on  the  lookout  for  a  good  book  to  give  as  a  present  to  a  boy  who  Is 
worth  his  salt,  this  is  the  book  we  would  recommend." — Standard. 

Maori  and  Settler:      A  Story  of  the  New  Zealand  War. 

By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  ALFRED  PEARSE.    12mo,  cloth* 

olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"In  the  adventures  among  the  Maoris,  there  are  many  breathless 
moments  In  which  the  odds  seem  hopelessly  against  the  party,  but  they 
succeed  in  establishing  themselves  happily  In  one  of  the  pleasant  New 
Zealand  valleys.  It  is  brimful  of  adventure,  of  humorous  aud  interesting 
conversation,  aud  vivid  pictures  of  colonial  life." — Schoolmaster. 

One  of  the  28th:    A  Tale  of  Waterloo.    By  G.  A. 

HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  W.  H.  OVEREJJD.      12mo,    cloth,  olivin* 

edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Written  with  Homeric  vigor  and  heroic  Inspiration.  It  is  graphic, 
picturesque,  and  dramatically  effective  .  .  .  shows  us  Mr.  Henty  at 
his  best  and  brightest.  The  adventures  will  hold  a  boy  enthralled  as  he 
rushes  through  them  with  breathless  Interest  'from  cover  to  cover.'  " — 
Observer. 

Orange  and  Green:    A  Tale  of  the  Boyne  and  Limer- 
ick.   By  G.  A.  HENTY.     With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE.     12mo, 
cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 
"The  narrative  Is  free    from    the  vice    of    prejudice,  and    ripples    with 

life  as  If  what  Is  being  described  were  really  passing  before  the  eye.  ' — 

Belfast   News-Letter. 

Through  the  Fray:    A  Story  of   the   Luddite   Kiots. 

By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  H.  M.  PAQET.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine 

edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Mr.  Henty  Inspires  a  love  and  admiration  for  straightforwardness,  truth 
and  courage.  This  Is  one  of  the  best  of  the  many  good  books  Mr. 
Henty  has  produced,  and  deserves  to  be  classed  with  his  'Facing  Death.'  " 
— Standard. 

The  Young  Midshipman:  A  Story  of  the  Bombard- 
ment of  Alexandria.  With  illustrations.  12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges, 
price  $1.00. 

A  coast  fishing  lad,  by  an  act  of  heroism,  secures  the  Interest  of 
a  shipowner,  who  places  him  as  an  apprentice  on  board  one  of  his  ships. 
In  company  with  two  of  bis  fellow-apprentices  be  Is  left  behind,  at 
Alexandria,  In  the  hands  of  the  revolted  Egyptian  troops,  and  Is  present 
throng*  the  bombardment  and  the  scenes  of  riot  and  bloodshed  wnlcn 
accompanied  it. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  pries  by  tin 
publisher,  £  L.  BTOT,  62-68  Duaae  Street,  New  York. 


14        A.  L.  BUBT's  BOOKS  FOR  YOUXG  PEOPLE. 

BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

In    Times    of    Peril.    A  Tale  of    India.    By  G.  A. 

HENTY.    With  illustrations.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

The  hero  of  the  story  early  excites  our  admiration,  and  Is  altogether 
a  fine  character  such  as  boys  will  delight  in,  whilst  the  story  of  the 
campaign  is  very  graphically  told." — St.  James's  Gazette. 

The  Cornet'  of  Horse:     A  Tale  of  Marlborough's  Wars. 

By  Q.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1. 

•'Mr.  Henty  not  only  concocts  a  thrilling  tale,  he  weaves  fact  and  fiction 
together  with  so  skillful  a  hand  that  the  reader  cannot  help  acquiring  a 
just  and  clear  view  of  that  fierce  and  terrible  struggle  known  as  the 
Crimean  War." — Athenaeum, 

The  Young  Franc-Tireurs :     Their  Adventures  in  the 

Franco-Prussian  War.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations.    ISmo,  cloth, 

olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"A  capital  book  for  boys.  It  is  bright  and  readable,  and  full  of  good 
sense  and  manliness.  It  teaches  pluck  and  patience  in  adversity,  and 
shows  that  right  living  leads  to  success." — Observer. 

The  Young  Colonists:    A  Story  of  Life  and  War  in 

South  Africa.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations.    ISmo,  cloth,  olivine 

edges,  price  $1.00. 

"No  boy  needs  to  have  any  story  of  Henty's  recommended  to  him,  and 
parents  who  do  not  know  and  buy  them  for  their  boys  should  be  ashamed 
of  themselves.  Those  to  whom  he  is  yet  unknown  could  not  make  a 
better  beginning  than  with  this  book. 

The  Young  Buglers.     A  Tale  of  the  Peninsular  War. 

By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations.    19mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1. 

"Mr.  Henty  is  a  giant  among  boys*  writers,  and  his  books  are  suffi- 
ciently popular  to  be  sure  of  a  welcome  anywhere.  In  stirring  interest, 
this  is  quite  up  to  the  level  of  Mr.  Henty's  former  historical  tales." — 
Saturday  Review. 

Sturdy  and  Strong;  or,  How  George  Andrews  Made  his 

Way.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations.    12mo.  cloth,  olivine  edges, 

price  $1.00. 

"The  history  of  a  hero  of  everyday  life,  whose  love  of  tr  tb,  clothing  of 
modesty,  and  innate  pluck,  carry  him,  naturally,  from  povrty  to  afflu- 
ence. George  Andrews  is  an  example  of  character  with  notliing  to  cavil 
at,  and  stands  as  a  good  instance  of  chivalry  in  domestic  life." — Tha 
Empire. 

Among  Malay  Pirates.    A    Story  of   Adventure   and 

Peril.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations.    ISmo,  cloth,  olivine  edges, 

price  $1.00. 

"Incident  succeeds  incident,  and  adventure  is  piled  upon  adventure, 
and  at  the  end  the  reader,  be  he  boy  or  man,  will  have  experienced 
breathless  enjoyment  In  a  romantic  story  that  must  have  taught  him 
much  at  its  close." — Army  and  Navy  Gazette. 

Jack  Archer.     A    Tale   of   the    Crimea.     BY  G.  A. 

HENTY.    With  illustrations.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  §1.00. 

"Mr.  Henty  not  only  concocts  a  thrilling  tale,  he  weaves  fact  and  fiction 
together  with  so  skillful  a  hand  that  the  rea'der  cannot  help  acquiring  a 
just  and  clear  view  of  that  fierce  and  terrible  struggle." — Athenaeum. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publisher,  A.  1.  BUET,  62-58  Dnane  Street,  New  York. 


A     000  058  300     5 


